


Archive of Monsters

by snuckybarnes



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - The Witcher, Flashbacks, M/M, Magic, Mystery solving, Pining, Slow Burn, Trans Male Character, monster hunting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:20:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27622628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snuckybarnes/pseuds/snuckybarnes
Summary: “Jon?” Martin hurries over and kneels down next to him in the mud before he hesitates. The beast is going to hurt someone else tonight, possibly more people than one, and he needs to stop it. But if he leaves Jon like this, he won’t make it until morning. Martin has to choose between a stranger’s life, and the life of the beautiful, tactless man he only met a few hours ago.It was never much of a choice.___The AU in which Martin is a witcher and Jon is a mage, and the fate of the world is still threatened.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 126
Kudos: 207





	1. The Beast of Vengerberg, Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this idea for well over half a year by now, and you know what? I'm gonna start posting and we'll see where it goes.
> 
> No characters from the Witcher universe will appear; this story only uses its worldbuilding and takes place before any of the events of the Witcher books or games.
> 
> Just like both source materials, this fic will have its share of bloody and violent content, so please keep that in mind. I will try to put other content warnings for each chapter as necessary.
> 
> Beta by the awesome [Crunchy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrunchyWrites/pseuds/CrunchyWrites) and encouragement by the lovely elliot.

The castle is large enough to compare to Kaer Lukas, but possesses enough grandeur to outmatch it several times over. The stone of the walls and floors isn’t bare like Martin is used to, but instead covered in carpets and tapestries, works of art to show off the extravagance that these people can afford. That witchers certainly can’t.

Intricate candelabras and chandeliers light the place up, a far cry from simple iron sconces, and all furniture serves for decoration as well as function. There’s almost a presence to the rooms themselves, as if to remind everyone who steps foot within to give careful regard to their place in the world. It’s a place of power — political, not magical — and Martin feels very much out of place.

He’s only truly been on the Path for a few years and his contracts have been paid for by farmers, villages, or lords of small towns. It’s been a simple life, but one he’s been preparing for ever since he was a child. It has certainly never taken him into a castle before, let alone one that is home to a queen.

Said queen is currently standing by a table, maps and documents spread out across it, with her court mage and castellan by her sides. The three of them certainly look their parts, dressed in fine clothes doubtlessly made from fabric that costs more than both of Martin’s swords, and he can’t help but feel out of place in his worn leathers. Still, they had asked for a witcher and thus he is here with them.

“These are the locations of all the reported attacks by the beast,” Queen Georgie says, gesturing to the map of her capital. The light catches on the rings on her fingers, pale silver contrasting against dark skin. “Thirteen attacks in less than twenty days, with no survivors.”

“What do they have in common?” Martin asks. “Any specific time of the attack, how are the victims killed…?”

“They all happen at night,” the castellan replies. She’s smaller than the queen, both in body and in presence, but speaks with just as much confidence. “Every single one of them was slaughtered, torn almost to pieces.”

The queen nods. “It’s like Melanie says. And it targets anyone, making no difference between the poor and the rich, or the young and the old. My people are suffering, witcher, we need your help. Please.”

“I’ll do what I can. Is there any possibility for me to see some of the victims? It would help me determine what we’re dealing with.”

“Of course,” the queen confirms. “Melanie will take you to the morgue as soon as we’re done here. And should you need any magical assistance, Jon will be at your service.” The court mage straightens a little at the mention of his name, his unnaturally green eyes flickering to Martin for just a moment.

Martin nods as well. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“I’m the one who should thank you,” the queen objects. “I worried no witcher would come to help us before it was too late. There will be a room prepared for you here in the palace until the matter is resolved, and once you rid us of the beast you will receive a reward of one thousand ducats.”

Martin is suddenly very thankful for his training as he does his best to keep his face neutral. That kind of money is...vastly more than he’s ever been paid before, and he’s torn between being shocked at the sheer value of it all, and worried by the danger that must mean this beast presents.

“Is that too small a sum?” the queen asks, misinterpreting his lack of reaction.

“Not at all, Your Grace,” Martin hurries to assure. “Thank you. Is there anything else I should know before I go to visit the morgue?”

Queen Georgie smiles, relieved, and shakes her head. “No, witcher, I think that’s all. I’ll send word to you if that changes.”

After being dismissed, Martin is led back through the castle by Melanie the castellan.

“You’re not what we expected, you know,” she says after a few minutes of silence.

“I’m not?”

Melanie shakes her head. “Don’t get me wrong, everyone’s happy that someone could possibly put an end to this mess, but aren’t you kind of...young?”

“So are you,” Martin points out, before remembering protocol and procedure. “Sorry, my lady. I mean no offence.”

The castellan lets out something halfway between a scoff and a chuckle. “None taken. And you’re right. It’s just that all witchers I’ve ever met have been both older and grumpier. Less… I don’t know, whatever you are.”

Martin shrugs. “Have you met a lot of witchers, then?”

“More than Georgie. Definitely more than Jon.”

“Right.” It’s not much of an answer, but Martin isn’t going to press it. “Well, us witchers can be just as diverse as other humans, more or less. The cat eyes are pretty universal.”

Melanie hums. “I figured. You can keep the Admiral company while you’re here.”

“Aedirn has a fleet? You’re landlocked.”

That brings out a smile, the first one Martin has seen the castellan show. “The Admiral is Georgie’s cat.”

Martin spares a thought to wonder if all courts can refer to their ruler so personally, without bothering with a title. He doesn’t voice it though, instead letting his shoulders slump at the mention of the animal. “Cats don’t tend to like witchers much. We have a few at Kaer Lukas, where I grew up, but they’ve avoided me ever since I went through the Trial of the Grasses.”

“That’s the process that turns you into witchers, right?”

“Yeah. You know of them?”

“I like to know a little about a lot of subjects,” Melanie says with a shrug.

The sight that greets them at the morgue is a gruesome one. Melanie trades a few words with the mortician, who then proceeds to show them the victims that have yet to be buried.

Or what’s left of them.

The first body has had its stomach torn open, the guts just a shredded mess. Another has a face and throat so mauled as to render it impossible to tell who it might have been, and the third lacks legs entirely. Martin is used to sights such as these by now, and offers only sympathetic thoughts to these poor souls and their families before he approaches to have a closer look. He would have expected someone of Melanie’s position to turn away in disgust, but she watches with rapt attention.

“What can you tell from the bodies?” she asks after a few minutes, her cloak still dripping rainwater from their walk outdoors.

Martin throws her a glance before he decides to indulge her. “You see these marks here? And here? Whatever did this had sharp claws, but far sharper teeth.”

“Does that narrow it down?”

“A bit, but not a lot,” Martin admits. “When were these people killed?”

“Two nights ago,” the mortician replies, and even though she must be used to this, she looks a bit pale. “We had two deaths the night before that, but those bodies are in the ground already. Last night no one died that we know of.”

Martin sighs. “Two nights ago was the full moon. Given that and the state of the victims, it’s likely we’re dealing with a werewolf.”

He looks up at Melanie, who clenches her jaw. “That’s bad, isn’t it?”

“Probably. First I need to figure out what kind.”

“I didn’t know there were more than one.”

“There is. Given how this has just started it’s probably the product of a curse, someone turning into the wolf without knowing it. I might be able to lift it.” He really hopes it’s not the kind where the affliction spreads like a disease.

Melanie crosses her arms. “And then what? That person has still killed a lot of our citizens.”

“Maybe against their will. But whatever happens then is up to your queen.”

“Alright. How do we find out who it is?”

Martin looks at the mauled bodies once again, wincing. “I think these poor folks have told us all they can. I need to have a look at the places they were attacked.”

“There’s magic here,” Martin says as soon as they step into the alleyway where one of the victims was found. “It’s faint, but it’s here.”

Despite the rain that has been pouring stubbornly for the last few days, the stench of death and blood still clings to the wall where the body had been slumped. Martin doubts Melanie or any of the other humans can feel it, but he can.

Unfortunately, that’s all there is. Not even the medallion around his neck gives as much as a twitch.

“Any other tracks or traces the beast might’ve left have been washed away, so I can’t track it,” he says with a frustrated sigh.

“Don’t tell me that’s it,” Melanie says from under her hood. “It can’t be a dead end like this.”

“Maybe not. But it does seem to be a curse, and your mage might be able to follow the magic.”

Having more duties to attend to, Melanie leaves him outside the mage’s quarters. Martin is still dripping from the rain and he really wishes someone had offered him a place to hang his cloak, but he’s slowly resigning himself to there not being much to do about the situation. Not for the first time, he wishes witcher signs were more flexible and complex.

Straightening his shoulders and taking a deep breath, he knocks on the door.

From the other side there is the sound of a chair scraping against the floor, followed by footsteps. Then the door is pulled open slowly, revealing the court mage. Jon, Martin recalls.

The man’s hair is greying, but his skin shows no signs of age, and Martin is reminded of the fact that mages often choose their own appearance, ceasing to age when it suits them. He wonders how old Jon really is.

Those unnaturally green eyes, undoubtedly yet another magical alteration, look up at him, reminding Martin that he has not yet said why he is there.

“Do you need something?” Jon asks, voice somehow smooth and rough at the same time.

“I, ah, I think the beast is a werewolf,” Martin tells him, hating how insecure he suddenly sounds. Peter, his mentor, would chastise him for it.

“I see.”

“And I think it’s the result of a curse. I could use your help tracking it. If— If you have the time, that is, my lord.”

Jon narrows his eyes, opening the door slightly and crossing his arms. “I’m not having sex with you.”

What?

_ “What?” _

“I said, I’m not having sex with you.”

Martin is pretty sure that he’s blushing, which is quite a feat given of how seldom that has happened since he got his mutations. “No, no, I heard you! But what— What prompted you to say  _ that?” _

“Isn’t that all you witchers do when you’re not hunting monsters? Seduce people?” Jon’s voice is still sharp, though he has averted his eyes.

“No? What kind of witchers have you met?”

“None,” Jon huffs, “but rumours spread.”

“Well, I can assure you that I’m not here to seduce you. I just want to work together,” Martin tells him, his face slowly starting to feel a bit cooler.

Jon regards him for a moment, until he finally seems convinced. For now. “Fine. And I realise we haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Jon Sims.”

He holds out his hand, and Martin takes it. “I know. Martin Blackwood.”

As their hands touch, Jon’s eyes go wide, gaze darting down to their joined hands. After a second, he hurries to let go, pulling his hand close to himself.

Martin has no idea what’s going on. “Is something wrong?” he asks.

“I… No. No, everything is fine,” Jon says, looking at Martin’s feet. “Actually no, you’re ruining my floor.” With a few words and gestures, Power swirls up around Martin, ridding him of the rainwater and drying his cloak.

“Oh,” Martin says. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing. What is it that you need my help with?”

The walk back through the city is accompanied by an awkward silence, save for the persistent rain. Jon clearly doesn’t care much for witchers, and Martin doesn’t really know what to do with that.

Peter has always told him not to trust a mage, that they’re planning and scheming and generally unpleasant, and Martin can’t tell if he’s right or not. The only mages Martin has ever really met are Gertrude and Sasha, who both reside in Kaer Lukas, and they’re as different as can be. Gertrude he has only ever seen when it’s time for new boys to undergo the Trial of the Grasses, her stern face overseeing the process and not looking any different whether someone lives or dies. And Sasha is present and joyful, far better company than most of the other witchers.

Jon is like neither of them. He’s unpredictable and Martin finds that he very much wants to figure him out. He wants to know what’s behind those green eyes and that voice that seems to reach into his core — maybe there’s magic in that too.

“And you really think I’ll be able to track this thing? I’m not a bloodhound,” Jon says as they’re approaching the alleyway.

“You’ll definitely have a better shot at it than me at least,” Martin assures. “Besides, I’ve dealt with werewolf curses before; I know what they’re like.”

“You’ve been on the Path long then? You don’t look that old.”

“Witchers age slower than normal humans,” Martin is quick to reply. It’s the truth, and Jon doesn’t need to know that Martin is yet to see his twenty-sixth summer.

“Right,” Jon says with a nod. “So do mages.”

“I know,” Martin tells him, but he is itching to ask how old Jon really is. He doesn’t look to be any older than Martin, but he might as well be centuries old. It’s a bit unnerving, and Martin thinks he understands at least a little bit of the caution people tend to treat him with.

“You’re leading me into a shady alleyway,” Jon deadpans, stopping in front of said location. “You’re not really making a good case for your kind, you know.”

Martin rolls his eyes with a sigh. “I already told you I’m just trying to work with you. Besides, if I did try anything I’m pretty sure you’d be able to defend yourself.”

_ “He’ll chop and slice you, cut and dice you, eat you whole,” _ Jon recites, and Martin could swear he’s weaving magic into his words.

_ “What?” _

“It’s a lullaby—”

“I know it’s a lullaby, I meant why are you quoting it?” Martin asks, shaking his head in disbelief.

Jon shrugs. “I don’t know. It seemed appropriate, I suppose. A classmate of mine back at Aretuza used to sing it sometimes. Ah, Aretuza is—”

“A school for mages, I’m aware. Us witchers aren’t entirely ignorant and uneducated, you know,” Martin tells him. “And I’m not gonna eat anyone whole either. This werewolf, however, just might, so if you would…?”

Jon nods quickly. “Right, of course. What am I looking for?”

Martin frowns. “I don’t know what magic feels like to you, but it’s like a...presence in the air? Like it’s fuzzy, making the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. And this is bad magic, causing the cursed person to kill, so it feels kind of like you’re about to throw up.”

“How charming.” Jon closes his eyes, then grimaces not long after. “Ah, yes, I see what you mean. Now what?”

“Now we try to track it. It’s too faint for me to pick up a trail, but I thought you might be more sensitive to it,” Martin tells him. “Hopefully it moves along the streets and not across the rooftops.”

Jon stays still and silent for a few moments, his head only twitching slightly. Then his eyes open, and Martin could swear they’re glowing just a bit. “I understand now,” Jon says, a little breathless.

Martin has to suppress a sigh of relief; he wasn’t certain this was going to work. “Great! Let’s go then.”

And they’re off. Jon leads him along the streets, to the point where Martin is well and totally lost. Occasionally he stops, closing his eyes and twitching his head again, until he picks up the trail once more.

“Hey,” Martin begins after a few minutes of this, “Isn’t Aretuza a school for girls?”

He thinks he sees Jon’s shoulders stiffen, but it’s hard to tell beneath the heavy cloak. “Yes.”

“Then how come you went there?”

“It, ah— There was a mistake. But I was moved to Ban Ard eventually,” Jon replies, stiffer than Martin has ever heard it. And that’s saying something.

“Right. Sorry, I’ll— I’ll let you get back to it.”

Jon lets out a faint  _ hmpf, _ and then stops about ten seconds later.

He says and does nothing, just stands there frowning. It makes Martin feel a bit bad. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

Jon hushes him. “There’s— It— It stops here. And...explodes? I don’t— There’s a lot of it.”

Remembering the task at hand, Martin focuses. He can feel it too. The magical residue is strong here, lacking any direction and at the same time going everywhere at once. He spins around slowly, taking in their surroundings. It’s another alleyway, a dead end behind two tall stone buildings. There’s a smell to the place, like wet dog mixed with a festering wound, which clings despite the rain. A few barrels and crates are stacked against one of the corners, and Martin follows the smell to them.

Despite what it first looked like, they aren’t stacked right against the wall, but rather leaving a space on the ground in between, hidden from anyone who would walk into the alleyway. The small nook has been cleaned out roughly, but whoever emptied it has missed a stray strip of purple and gold fabric, ripped from whatever garment it once belonged to. And in the mud lies several clots of coarse, sand coloured fur. Against his chest, Martin’s medallion does a little jump.

“What are you doing?” Jon’s voice cuts through Martin’s revelation, bringing him back to the present.

“I… I think this is where it goes to turn,” Martin says, voice barely more than an exhale. He crouches down to pick up the scrap of fabric. “Is it too much to hope for that this is familiar to you?” he asks as he stands up and turns around.

Jon frowns again, looking down at the fabric. “That’s— That’s the tabard of the Royal Guard.”

“Are you certain?” Martin asks, eyebrows raised.

“Yes. I mean, I suppose something else could have the same colours, but yes.”

“Have any of the beast’s victims been guards?”

“One or two I believe. Why?”

Martin sighs. “If there hadn’t, there would have been a pretty high chance the cursed person was actually part of the Guard. But now this may just as well be from a victim.”

“So what will you do now?”

“I’ll prepare. Wait ‘til nightfall and then keep it busy enough to not attack anyone. Then once morning comes I’ll know who it is and I can go about breaking the curse.”

“How do you do that?” Jon’s distaste for witchers seems forgotten in favour of his curiosity. Martin isn’t about to complain.

“I can’t know that until I know more about the curse. And it depends a lot on the cursed person.”

The rain slowly starts to let up over the course of the afternoon and evening, while Martin prepares his oils and his potions. He doesn’t want to deal a fatal wound, not in case the person inside the wolf can still be saved, but he needs to keep it from hurting anyone else either. Peter’s old lessons are playing over and over in his mind as he carefully coats his silver blade.

As the sun sets he returns to the werewolf’s alleyway, climbing up onto the lowest of the stone walls to hide. It’s not a foolproof hiding place, but it is one he’ll be quick to come down from once it’s time to give chase. He drinks of his potions; first of Cat and then of Thunderbolt, and then he waits.

It’s not long before a woman steps into the alleyway. Her gait is shaky but determined, and she begins to undress as she steps behind the well-placed crates. She clearly knows about her condition, but it’s yet too early to tell whether that will make Martin’s task harder or easier. Her shaking increases as she moves, and once her clothes are tucked away it becomes uncontrolled. Martin watches silently as she convulses, her bones snapping as her body stretches into a new shape. By the time she stills, she is on all fours, covered in fur and breathing heavily, almost snarling.

He briefly wonders how long it will take her to smell him, before her head snaps in the opposite direction. She bares her teeth and slowly begins to stalk towards the mouth of the alley, just as Martin hears the shallow breathing of the person waiting just around the corner. They must have seen the woman transform, or at least heard it, and now their life is in danger for it.

Martin jumps down from his hidden nook, sword in hand, just as the wolf leaps for the corner. She turns and leaps again, and Martin can hear the thump of a body falling to the ground a millisecond before he sees it for himself. The wolf is looming over the prone person, front paws on their throat and chest, snout far too close to their face.

“Hey!” Martin yells, causing the wolf to snap its head back and turn that snarl towards him instead. Good. “No one ever told you to go after people your own size?”

There’s a whimper, the sudden scent of blood, and the wolf turning to face Martin. It lunges for him, but he steps out of its way, catching its shoulder with his silver sword. It’s not a deep cut, but the wolf yelps nonetheless, and their movements now have Martin cornering it into the alley. But Martin is stupid, overestimating his advantage, and the wolf makes a leap again, tackling him just as it had tackled the stranger bleeding a few feet away from him. With him, it doesn’t hesitate, and goes to bite at the place where his neck meets his shoulder.

But his collar is high and sturdy and covered in silver studs, making the wolf draw back with another pained yelp before its teeth can do any real damage. Martin goes to slash at it with his sword again but the wolf is faster, leaping away from him and out of the alleyway before he gets the chance. By the time he’s scrambled to his feet it’s already out of sight.

He begins to run after it when he’s stopped by a whimper from the ground.

Martin looks down, eyes landing on the human who got in the wolf’s way. As it turned to attack Martin, its claws managed to slice the person’s throat, and now they’re hopelessly clutching at the wound to keep from bleeding out.

Martin takes all of that in before he realises the person in question is familiar.

“Jon?” Martin hurries over and kneels down next to him in the mud before he hesitates. The werewolf is going to hurt someone else tonight, possibly more people than one, and he needs to stop it. But if he leaves Jon like this, he won’t make it until morning. Martin has to choose between a stranger’s life, and the life of the beautiful, tactless man he only met a few hours ago.

It was never much of a choice.

“Shit,” he hisses to himself, tearing off his gauntlets and reaching into the small bag on his belt for a lump of cloth he keeps for this very purpose. He eases Jon’s hands away and presses the cloth against Jon’s throat, while Jon whimpers again and watches him with wide eyes. With the Cat in his system, Martin is certain they’re glowing. “Hey, shh,” he says. “You’re gonna be okay. What were you even  _ doing _ out here, huh? No, don’t answer that. You can tell me later when you can talk.”

The cloth is rapidly soaking up Jon’s blood and Martin tries to think. He has Swallow, but there’s no telling how that potion will work on a non-witcher; it might kill Jon just as it might save him.

Jon spasms then, a wet cough racking his chest and colouring his lips with flecks of red. It makes Martin’s decision for him.

“This is gonna taste foul,” he says, tugging a potion vial free from his belt. “But you need to drink it if you want to live, okay?” Jon’s frantic eyes are searching Martin’s face, pleading, and Martin puts one hand beneath his head, lifting it. “Keep the pressure on your throat,” he instructs. His hand gets muddy where it tangles in Jon’s soaked hair, but he barely notices it. He pulls the cork from the vial with his teeth, then holds it to Jon’s lips, tilting it back slowly as not to spill.

The pain must be really bad, because Jon doesn’t even make a face at the taste of the potion. Instead he swallows dutifully, his eyes slowly falling shut.

“Hey, none of that,” Martin says, lowering him back down once the vial is empty. “You’ll get your rest, but I need you to stay awake for a little bit longer.”

Jon whimpers again, but opens his eyes a fraction.

Martin allows himself a sliver of relief. “There you go.” The cloth against Jon’s throat is already soaked, and he knows he needs something better if he’s to move him. Staying where they are is not an option, in case the werewolf still plans to return by morning. Martin’s clothes are already muddy and beyond consideration, and the same goes for Jon’s cloak. It looks to be made from a thick and sturdy enough fabric, however, and Martin realises the clothes underneath are likely to be undisturbed.

Any other time, Martin would have blushed and been terribly awkward about it all, but right now he can’t afford to. So he just wipes his hand as much as he can before opening Jon’s cloak and doublet to reveal the fine linen shirt underneath. Jon squirms in protest but is in no state to do much else as Martin rips off the lowest inches of the shirt. “I’m really sorry about this,” he says, “but I think you’ll thank me later.”

Any other time Martin would have turned away in awkward embarrassment at the reveal of Jon’s soft brown skin, but right now he’s too preoccupied with keeping the man alive. He bunches the fabric against Jon’s throat, urging his blood-slick hands to keep it in place.

“Can you hold it?” he asks. “I need to get you out of here.”

Jon doesn’t answer, shouldn’t answer, but his fingers tighten just a fraction. It’s enough. Martin ignores Peter’s voice in the back of his head as he sheathes his sword after only wiping away the worst of the mud, and then gets his arms around Jon’s shoulders and under his knees. He lifts him slowly, careful not to jostle him and risk making the wound worse, and starts walking.

Jon leans his head against Martin’s chest as he carries him, the top of his mud-stained hair brushing Martin’s chin. He’s not heavy, especially not to a witcher, but the gravity of the situation is enough for Martin to properly feel his weight. The castle is not far, and under normal circumstances Martin wouldn’t have hesitated to take the walk back. But with Jon in his current state, he just needs somewhere safe to put him down.

Which is why Martin shoulders his way into the first inn he can find.

Every single one of the patrons fall silent as he enters, but he doesn’t know whether it’s because he is a witcher, or because he’s carrying a bleeding court mage. He doesn’t care to find out. Instead he just walks up to the innkeeper, who stares at him.

“I can pay for myself and so can he. But not until the morning. I just— I need a room. Now,” he says, and then, still managing to feel bad about his manners, “Please.”

The innkeeper is shaken out of her stupor, reaches for something underneath the bar and steps out from behind it. “Follow me,” she says with a nod, heading up a staircase.

Martin does, careful not to jostle Jon as he walks, and is led through a short corridor. The innkeeper unlocks a door with a heavy iron key, opening it for Martin to step inside. “Do you need water?” she asks.

“I— Yes, that would be great, thank you,” Martin tells her. As her steps fade away he carefully sets Jon down on the bed. The sheets will get messy, but that’s a problem for later. Martin closes his eyes and breathes in; the blood flow has slowed down somewhat, and he doesn’t smell any of the reactions it would have to excessive toxicity. The Swallow is there in the scent, but it seems to be doing its job.

Martin covers Jon’s hands with one of his own, keeping the pressure on the wound for him. “It’s gonna be alright,” he hushes. “You’ll get through this.”

Jon gives what Martin thinks is a scoff, the slightest roll of his eyes.

“I mean it. Witcher’s honour.”

The innkeeper returns soon thereafter with two buckets of water. She pours some in a low basin, and offers Martin a cloth. He murmurs his thank yous as he begins to clean Jon’s wound around the compression. Jon, impressively enough, stays still and silent throughout it all — either a sign of great self control, or that he’s slipping closer and closer to unconsciousness. Martin, meanwhile, keeps murmuring comforts and assurances. He never could shake the habit he picked up when taking care of the injuries of the younger witchers, despite Peter’s insistence.

Jon drifts off after a while, his face no longer twitching in response to Martin’s words. He looks younger like that, despite the greys in his hair, and Martin wonders once again how old Jon actually is. If he was already a powerful sorcerer before Martin was even born, or if he has just come into his power. With his eyes closed he looks just like any ordinary man, albeit a very beautiful one.

Martin dabs the last of the blood away, the worst flow of it having stopped by now. He places a clean cloth across the wound in case it would start bleeding again, and waits.

He gets a few minutes of blissful silence before Jon lets out a sharp cry, eyes opening wide and his hands coming up to clutch at his throat. Martin catches him by the wrists, then moves to hold him down by his upper arms.

“Shh, you’re okay. You’ll be okay,” he tells him, keeping his voice low while Jon is letting out anguished moans. “Your body isn’t meant to take the potions, so it hurts something awful, I know, I know. But the pain means it’s working.”

Jon just gives him a wordless whine in reply as he grits his teeth.

They spend the night like that, Jon drifting in and out of consciousness, in and out of pain. Martin remains vigilant through it all, holding Jon still to make sure he doesn’t tear anything and scanning his face for any sign of something going wrong. Through it all, Jon’s heart beats strong (if fast) and the toxins never overtake the smell of his blood.

By the time the sun rises, Jon falls properly asleep. The Swallow has done what it can, and Martin sits back, finally letting himself relax as he watches Jon’s chest rise and fall.

He likes to think he’s a good witcher. He cares about saving people, as many as he can, when he works his contracts. He knows he can’t save everyone, but he has never been able to walk away from a situation without at least trying. But this… He has never kept a vigil like this, has never had his heart beat this fast outside of a fight. He should fight equally as hard to save anyone, but there’s something special about Jon.

Gods know there shouldn’t be. Jon has already made it quite clear that he doesn’t even like witchers, and he will hardly spare Martin a glance after this ordeal is over and done with. Except perhaps one of contempt, given the new scar that now adorns his throat. Though perhaps mages can have such things removed or glamoured, hidden away.

Martin cleans up the rest of the room and carries the basins downstairs. The innkeeper is already awake, and takes them from him with a polite nod. When he returns, Martin kneels down to meditate on the floor in front of the bed, keeping vigil over Jon’s sleeping form. He tries to focus the meditation on locking his budding feelings away, but doesn’t count on being very successful. He always was rubbish at the numbness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, there's more to come! If you like this story so far, please let me know! That's what motivates me to keep writing ;)


	2. Interlude: Law of Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cottage is a small, sad thing. It’s inhabited by humans and animals alike, but Peter Lukas can sense the loneliness radiating from it from far away. It’s barely even a home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to chapter two! Or rather, our first interlude; between every "plot chapter" you'll get a shorter chapter gazing into the past of some of the characters. Sadly this means you won't find out how Jon is doing for a little while longer, but I hope you like this in the meantime!
> 
> Beta by the awesome [Crunchy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrunchyWrites/pseuds/CrunchyWrites) and encouragement by the lovely elliot.
> 
> CW in this chapter for misgendering, and for Martin's mother in general.

The cottage is a small, sad thing. It’s inhabited by humans and animals alike, but Peter Lukas can sense the loneliness radiating from it from far away. It’s barely even a home.

It’s for the best, really. It will make what he is about to do so much easier; taking a young boy through the woods and up the mountains is far less of a problem when he isn’t kicking and crying to go back to his family.

He dismounts from his horse — a sturdy roan by the name of Tundra — and ties him to the ratty fence. A few chickens are moving about in front of the cottage, who start clucking as they notice their guest. The sound is enough to call the attention of one of the inhabitants of the cottage, a young child peeking out through the door.

The child steps out onto the yellowed grass, unruly ginger curls bouncing and legs almost tangling in the long tattered skirt. Peter narrows his eyes. He knows this is the right place.

“Are you a witcher?” the child asks, eyes wide like saucers but not afraid.

“I am,” Peter replies. “Are you Martin?”

The child frowns, shaking their head. “No. Who’s Martin?”

“I take it you don’t have a brother then?”

“No. It’s just me and my mum and the animals.”

“What about your father?”

The child wraps their arms around themself, looking away. “He’s gone. Since last winter.”

“I see.” Peter takes a step closer to the child, then crouches down to meet their eyes. “Tell me, what do you know about witchers?”

“That they hunt monsters. That— that _you_ hunt monsters,” the child says, “And that you save people. My dad was saved by a witcher once, actually. And had to give the law of surmise as thanks.”

Peter’s lips twitch into a smile. It is the right family, then. “That’s the Law of _Surprise_. And do you want to know something? I’m actually the witcher who saved your father.”

The child’s eyes grow even wider. “Really?”

“Really. Do you know what the Law of Surprise means?”

A shake of the head.

“It means that you give someone what you already have, but don’t yet know about. And when I saved your father and escorted him home, he learned that your mother was pregnant. But I couldn’t just sit around here and wait for my payment, you see, so I told them I would come back in a decade. How old are you, child?”

The child holds out their hands, all fingers out except the left thumb, which stays tucked against the round palm. “Nine.”

Peter nods. “Your father agreed, and told me he would give up his son Martin when the time came. And since you don’t have any brothers, I’m pretty sure that makes you Martin.”

“But I’m not.”

“Would it feel wrong to be?” Peter asks. Destiny never lies, after all.

“I can choose?”

“Yes.”

“I think I’d like a moment to consitemplate.”

“Of course!” Peter agrees, standing and walking back to Tundra. The horse nickers lowly, searching in vain for treats. “If you do decide to be Martin,” Peter continues, “you will get to come with me and Tundra here. You’ll get to live in a fortress, and train with other boys to become a witcher just like me.”

“What about my mum?”

“She has to stay here. But I’m sure she’d be proud to know you’re going to become someone who saves lives.”

As if summoned, there comes a voice from inside the cottage. “Who’s out there? Do we have company?”

The child who might be Martin rushes back to the door. “We do! It’s a witcher!”

The woman inside the cottage coughs, and Peter can hear her get out of a bed and step over the earthen floor. She brings the faint smell of sickness with her when she reaches the doorway. “Here for your price then?” she asks Peter, something bitter in her hoarse voice. “It’s too bad. I never had the son my husband promised you, just the girl.”

Peter shrugs. “A child of surprise nonetheless. I was promised a Martin.”

At this, the child tugs at their mother’s skirt. “I think I _am_ a Martin, mum. It sounds pretty, don’t you think?”

The mother barks out a sharp, mirthless laugh, halfway to a scoff. “That’s the way it is, is it? Fine, take her off my hands, I won’t fight you over it.” She loosens her child’s grip on her skirt and retreats back into the cottage.

Not the usual way parents react when witchers come to take their children, but Peter isn’t going to complain. He shrugs and returns his attention to the child. “Have you made up your mind then? You’d like to be Martin?”

The child nods. “Yes. I would.”

“Wonderful!” Peter tells him, looking him over. He doesn’t seem fit for travel. “Now, Martin, do you own any trousers?”

“I do.”

“Good. Go get changed, and pack any spare clothes you have that isn’t a dress. Can you do that?”

Martin nods eagerly, then hurries into the cottage. Peter turns to Tundra once more as the child rummages through his most likely meager belongings for a few minutes. It’s going to be terribly annoying to have to have a travel companion, but eventually he’ll be alone on the Path again.

After a little while Martin reemerges from the cottage, clad in trousers and a shirt, and carrying a small pack. He looks determined. Good.

“Are you ready to leave?” Peter asks.

Martin nods, but turns back to the cottage one last time. His mother is standing in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest. Martin wraps his chubby arms around her middle. “Don’t worry, mum, I’ll kill lots of monsters and keep you safe,” he murmurs, only audible to Peter thanks to his enhanced senses.

The mother doesn’t return the embrace, just waits for it to be over. Even Peter thinks it seems a little cold.

Eventually Martin lets go and comes to stand in front of Peter, stubbornly not letting any tears fall down his cheeks. Peter gives him a smile and helps him up onto Tundra’s back, before taking his place in the saddle behind him. Martin doesn’t look back once as they set off on the road, and it’s all a rather pleasant affair.

Martin is a good lad, it turns out, taking to the life on the road without complaints. When they make camp he sets off to gather firewood without even being prompted to, and he listens dutifully when Peter tells him how to take care of Tundra.

“It’s important to be practical when you’re a witcher,” Peter tells him when they’re sitting down for supper; a hare that got too curious.

Martin nods, attentive as ever.

“You’re not going to have the time to take care of hair that long, even if you like it. So we’re going to have to cut it off for now, is that alright?”

Martin reaches for one of his curls, long enough to reach halfway down his back. He twists it around his fingers for a moment before letting go, sighing and straightening his back. “Alright.”

“Good!” Peter tells him, then gets up to kneel down behind the child. With his knife he slowly cuts away curl after curl, leaving the hair just above shoulder length for now. Someone back at Kaer Lukas can do a better job of it if Martin would like. As it is, he just sits perfectly still as Peter works with hands that are neither harsh nor gentle. A part of Peter wonders if the boy has known a gentle hand in all his life, but it’s also not his purpose to offer one. He’s only looking to make another witcher.

When it’s done, Martin drags his fingers through his now short hair, shaking his head like a dog to watch it bounce around his head. It’s almost a shame that his childishness won’t get to last for much longer.

The journey to Kaer Lukas takes just under a fortnight, delayed somewhat by a contract on a nightwraith in a village barely large enough to have a name. Martin takes it all in stride, not even complaining when the weather starts growing harsh or when Peter tells him it’s his turn to gut an animal for its meat. He’s resilient, and Peter is almost willing to bet he’ll make it through the Trial of the Grasses.

Eventually the fortress becomes visible over the treetops, pale stone reaching into an even paler sky. Tundra picks up the pace, realising he’s almost home, and after an hour they’re crossing the drawbridge and entering the courtyard.

It’s early afternoon, meaning the area is full of witchers in the middle of training, ranging from novices to seasoned veterans. Martin takes it all in with those wide eyes of his as Peter helps him down from the back of the horse, the sounds of bodies moving and swords clanging loud and lively.

“This will be you, soon enough,” Peter tells him as he begins to lead Tundra to the stables. “This is your new home, and will be so whenever you’re not on the Path.”

“There are so many _people,”_ Martin points out.

Peter sighs. “I know. It’s an unfortunate side effect, but it’s better to winter here than anywhere else. Besides, you need training before you go off on your own.”

Martin looks thoughtful, then nods. “When do I start?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The process that boys go through to become witchers is literally and canonically just magical HRT and what kind of person would I be if I didn't use that to make characters trans?
> 
> If you like this story, remember that kudos and comments inspire me to write more! Next time we'll go back to adult Jon and Martin, I promise.


	3. The Beast of Vengerberg, Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I was curious. I wanted to see the transformation for myself. I’ve read a lot about it.”
> 
> “And how was it? Did it sate your curiosity?”
> 
> Jon glances up at him. Or glares, rather, and Martin worries he has overstepped. “I’ll admit I...was a bit over-ambitious. But in my defense I did get to see the creature up close.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to the second half of this particular adventure!
> 
> Beta for this fic by the awesome [Crunchy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrunchyWrites/pseuds/CrunchyWrites) and encouragement by the lovely elliot.

“Martin?”

The sound of Jon’s voice startles him out of his meditation, and Martin opens his eyes to find Jon half-sitting in the bed, pushed up onto his elbows. He is brushing one hand across his throat, the angry red line there a vivid reminder of last night’s events. He sounds a bit hoarse when he speaks.

Martin rolls his shoulders, trying to get some of the stiffness out of them. “How are you feeling?” he asks.

Jon snorts. “Like I’ve been mauled by a werewolf.”

“If you’d been mauled you wouldn’t be sitting here now. You’re lucky it was just a scratch,” Martin reminds him. He wonders if all mages are this careless with their own safety. Maybe they trust in their own magic to keep them safe.

Jon is silent for a moment, his hand stilling as his gaze drifts away from Martin. “I know. Thank you for helping me.”

“I’m a witcher. It’s what I do,” Martin says with a shrug. Jon isn’t special. He  _ isn’t. _

“I—” Jon begins, but stops as he drags a hand through his hair. His fingers get stuck in the dried mud there and he grimaces. He looks down at himself, at the mud and blood and the place where Martin tore his shirt. “I...would like to return to the castle, if that’s possible. Cleaning up would be welcome,” he says, his voice returning to that clipped and aloof tone it had when Martin first met him yesterday.

“Sure,” Martin says as he stands from the floor. “I just need to pay for the room and we can be on our way.”

“No,” Jon protests. “No, that should be my responsibility. You wouldn’t have had to be here if it wasn’t for my curiosity.”

“Really?” Martin tries and fails to read him.

Jon sighs. “Yes, Martin, really. Let’s just go.”

Jon’s mood is fairly neutral and even all the while until they reach his chambers. He crosses the circular room only to abruptly stop as he reaches the staircase on the other side.

“I… You can stay here while I wash up and get changed,” he says stiffly. “You can leave as well, of course, should you want to, just— Don’t come upstairs.”

Martin shrugs. “Okay. Is it alright if I use your floor to clean some of my things?”

Jon’s shoulders relax just a fraction. “Yes. There’s a basin in the cabinet over there, and if you twist the blue crystal near the window you will get fresh water.”

“That’s convenient,” Martin remarks, not too fond of how they had to carry water by the bucket at Kaer Lukas.

“I suppose so, yes,” Jon says after a beat. “They’re quite common at the schools.”

“Right.”

Jon winces slightly, before he takes a step towards the stairs, and then another. Then he is climbing them, leaving Martin alone.

Taking his chance, Martin gets to work on cleaning his gear. Water does indeed fill up in the basin when he twists the crystal, and makes the process of wiping his sword and clothing free of mud much easier. Once everything is as clean as it’s going to get, he oils what he can to protect it all from the damp.

Neither cleaning nor oiling is a fast process, but by the time Martin is done and has left his leathers and weapons on the floor to rest, Jon still hasn’t come back downstairs. Martin spends a minute or so just standing in the middle of the room and looking about himself, before he spots some cups on a shelf.

_ Why not? _

He fills the cups with water and sets them on the small table in the sitting area of the room. With a careful use of Igni that he has practiced to a quite unnecessary degree, Martin heats the water just up to a boil. Then he reaches into one of his belt pouches for one of his most precious items.

The tea leaves he places in small bags made of finely woven linen, before lowering them into the water. It doesn’t take long for the scent to start following the steam up into the air, and as Martin eventually takes the leaves out he hears Jon’s soft steps coming down the staircase.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice cautious yet soft.

Martin looks at him over his shoulders, giving him a smile. “I’m making tea. I thought you could use something warm, still.”

“I’ve never had tea,” Jon admits, shifting a step closer. His hair is still damp, but he’s dressed in clean clothes. His collar is high enough to almost hide the new red line there, if you didn’t know what to look for.

“Well, this isn’t like the stuff that nobles like to order from across the sea, but you can make tea from almost anything. It’s a blend of herbs and flowers, mostly,” Martin explains, setting the soaked bags into an empty cup. “If you have anything sweet, that’ll make it better, but you can drink it just as it is, too.”

Jon frowns, then heads to a cabinet. He takes down a small jar, which he offers to Martin. “Will honey do?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Martin takes the jar, administering some into each cup before handing it back to Jon. Once the jar is back in its place, he hands one of the cups over. “Careful, it’s hot.”

Jon nods and accepts the cup, careful to not let his fingers touch Martin’s as he does so. He inhales the steam rising from the cup before taking a tentative sip. And then another. And another.

“So you like it then?” Martin asks, unable to keep the smile from his face. There’s a certain kind of satisfaction in showing someone something new and having them appreciate it.

Martin’s words make Jon slow down, gingerly placing the cup down on the table. “Yes. Thank you. It, ah, it helps with my throat.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Martin pauses, looking down into his own cup. “Speaking of that, we should tell the castellan about the fabric we found. See what we can find out.”

Jon hums. “Or we could go straight to Georgie. She’s much nicer to deal with.”

Once more Martin wonders exactly how familiar the higher-ups of this court are with each other, but he doesn’t voice anything. “I suppose,” he just says. When Jon elects to drink more tea rather than offering any more words, Martin continues. “So… Are you going to tell me what you were doing in the alley? You knew it would be dangerous.”

“I can take care of myself,” Jon says, seemingly on instinct.

Martin raises an eyebrow at him. “Is that what you call it?”

“Alright, fine.” Jon sets his cup down, placing both his palms onto the table, letting it support his weight. “I was curious. I wanted to see the transformation for myself. I’ve read a lot about it.”

“And how was it? Did it sate your curiosity?”

Jon glances up at him. Or glares, rather, and Martin worries he has overstepped. “I’ll admit I...was a bit over-ambitious. But in my defense I did get to see the creature up close.” He looks down again, clears his throat. “But… Thank you, again. For helping me.”

Martin shrugs. “You’re welcome. Just… You do know that there was no guarantee that Swallow was gonna work, right? It could just as easily have killed you.”

“But it didn’t.”

“No,” Martin sighs. “It didn’t.”

The queen and the castellan take the news about as well as could be expected. While it’s still likely that the scrap of fabric was from one of the victims, there is still a chance that the werewolf is indeed a member of the Royal Guard. Regardless of which, she is aware of her curse and doing little to control it.

Queen Georgie sighs once the situation has been explained, and the stiffness of her body makes Martin wonder just how much effort she is putting into not dragging her fingers through her braids. “Would you be able to recognise this woman?” she asks.

“I believe so, Your Grace,” Martin replies. “I got a good enough look at her face before she turned, and she will have a— a certain smell to her.”

“Okay.” The queen turns to the castellan. “Melanie, if you would gather as many of the guards as possible so the witcher can have a look? Hopefully we can eliminate the possibility of the beast being one of our own.”

“I, um— Your Grace?”

The queen returns her attention to Martin, considering. “Yes?”

“She might hide, if she’s part of the guard. She’ll know what I smell like as well, and likely avoid me as much as she can. She knows I’m hunting her.”

“How?” Melanie asks. “I thought you said you hid to watch the transformation.”

“I did! But then Jon showed up and she attacked him, so I had to fight her off,” Martin explains, but his voice falters as he feels Jon’s withering glare upon him.

Apparently neither queen nor castellan are as affected by the unnatural green, as both let their attention drift from witcher to mage.

“You were  _ there?” _ the queen asks. Demands, really.

“The chance to see a werewolf transformation up close is something that few—”

“Is something that few  _ survive, _ Jon. Mage or not.”

Jon tucks his chin closer to his chest and crosses his arms. If it wasn’t for his eyes, he would almost look like a sulking child. “Well, I did.”

“The witcher just said you were attacked!”

“Yes, but I’m standing here now, aren’t I?”

The queen scoffs, then shakes her head and turns to Martin. “What happened?”

Martin is about to tell her, but Jon cuts him off before he has the chance. “Georgie, I said I’m fine. It’s just a scratch.”

Martin once again wonders just what the relationship between Aedirn’s ruler and her advisors is, and desperately hopes he won’t have to get involved.

Of course, Queen Georgie turns to him again. “I assume I have you to thank for the fact that my idiot of a court mage is still alive?”

“I… Ah…” Martin glances at Jon. He doesn’t want to upset him by telling Queen Georgie too much, but he also can’t risk displeasing a queen and an employer.

Jon must take pity on him, because he stands up a little straighter, rolling his eyes. “If you must know, then yes, Martin did help me. Are you happy now?”

The queen gives Jon a look that seems to contain an entire essay of comments. Martin supposes that he could decode them if he knew her better, and judging by the challenge in Jon’s own eyes, he knows the meaning just fine.

Martin clears his throat. “So, um… What would you like to do about the guards?”

“Is there anything you could do that wouldn’t involve meeting them face to face?” Melanie asks.

Martin thinks for a second, trying not to let the pressure of three people watching him bother him too much. “I mean… I suppose if I could get into their barracks? She might have left a trail where she sleeps.”

The queen nods. “Alright. Let’s do that then. Melanie, will you show him around?”

“Sure,” Melanie says, grabbing a bag and nodding for Martin to follow her.

They leave Jon and the queen behind, with the queen saying a quiet but firm, “Jon? A word, please?” before the door closes behind them.

“So…” Melanie drawls once they start walking down the hallways, “Jon, huh? What do you make of him?”

The question catches Martin off guard, but he likes to think he manages to earn some valuable time by clearing his throat. “He’s, ah, he’s stubborn, I suppose.”

“Well that’s hardly news, is it?” Melanie rolls her eyes. “He’s a piece of work, isn’t he? But he grew up with Georgie, so here he is.”

So he’s not ancient then. He’s probably close to Martin’s age, even. Martin tries to tell himself that that piece of information means nothing. “He’s...certainly something,” he settles on.

Melanie stops to stare at him, and Martin walks past her for a few steps. “Oh, by Kreve. You actually like him, don’t you?”

“I barely know him,” Martin hurries to say.

Melanie just laughs. “Oh, this is— Wow. I, er, I suppose I can only say good luck? You’ll need it.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” It’s both a lie and a truth. He does in fact not know Jon well enough to fully grasp the meaning behind Melanie’s words, and he doesn’t quite know what she thinks his intentions are. But his apparently visible infatuation is something he would very much like to deny.

“If you say so,” Melanie tells him with a shrug. “Come on, let’s go.”

It’s in the third guard barracks that he finds it. The smell is strong; canine mixed with the stench of cursed magic, and Martin can’t understand how no one else has noticed it.

“This is it,” he says, nodding to one of the beds. “Who lives here?”

Melanie looks through one of the scrolls in her bag. It takes her a minute to find the right place, but eventually she does. “Her name is Alice Tonner. I’m familiar with who she is.”

“Do you think she would be willing to have the curse lifted?” Martin asks.

Melanie sighs. “That I don’t know. What do we do?”

“We need to keep an eye on her. If we can— If you can lock her up we can make sure she doesn’t kill anyone else, and I can start looking for a cure,” Martin offers.

“And if she doesn’t want it?”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Melanie gathers a handful of guards, and then they set off to find Tonner. She is where the guard rotation said she would be, and there is no doubt in Martin’s mind that it’s the same woman from the night before. She glares at him, hand on the hilt of her sword.

“What’s this?” she asks.

“You’re being taken to the dungeons, to stop further killings,” Melanie announces, and the other guards step closer.

“You can’t do this,” says the guard stationed with Tonner. Her hand goes to her sword’s hilt as well.

Surprisingly, Tonner drops her hands to her sides. “Yes they can, Basira. It’s alright,” she says.

“It’s not!” the woman called Basira objects. “There’s no proof.”

“If you cause trouble, you can take the cell next to her,” Melanie warns.

“Basira,” Tonner says again, and Martin knows that if she had been in her other form, her hackles would have been raised.

Basira lets her sword drop back fully into its sheath. “This isn’t over. It can’t be.”

Even as the guards escort Tonner to the dungeons, Martin knows she’s right.

Tonner is calm in her cell. Too calm, even, and Martin can’t help but worry that something’s amiss. He watches for a while, leaning his back against the cold stone wall of the corridor. On the other side of the bars, Tonner is mimicking him. She stares at him in turn, her eyebrow cocked as she looks into the shadow where no human would be able to discern much at all.

“So what is it that you plan on doing?” she finally asks, abandoning her position by the wall to come leaning against the bars instead. The cell is small enough that it only takes her two steps to cross it.

“That depends on you,” Martin replies, taking a step forward as well.

“And what if I’m not willing to talk?”

“You don’t need to talk. I’ve already seen you turn, and by nightfall so will the guards as well.”

If his words have any effect on Tonner, she doesn’t show it. “You think these bars will hold me?”

Martin shrugs. “I think they’ll slow you down, at the very least.”

“So you can kill me? You’re welcome to try.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Then don’t,” Tonner bites back. “Let me out and be on your merry way.”

“I can’t let you kill more innocent people either.”

Tonner scoffs. “You really believe that people are innocent?”

“I believe few crimes justify getting mauled by a werewolf,” Martin says, crossing his arms.

“You would, if you knew what they’d done.”

“And what about last night then? Walking at night is an act worthy of punishment as well?”

Something changes in Tonner’s eyes. Martin doesn’t like it. “He was in my way,” she says. “But I would have come for him eventually.”

“Why?” Martin asks. He doesn’t know why he’s expecting any reasonable answer from this woman.

“Because he’s becoming something  _ awful,” _ Tonner all but snarls. “I don’t know how, I don’t know what, I don’t know  _ why, _ but I know I can’t let him become it.”

“And you’re what, a ray of sunshine?” Martin snaps back before he can stop it.

“Oh, like you’re so much better. You kill those you deem monsters even though you witchers are all but monsters yourselves.”

It’s not that the insult bites at him particularly hard. No, Martin is used to it. He can’t pinpoint what causes it; he just feels the angry energy drain out of him in an instant. His voice is calm and soft when he speaks next. “I was going to try and cure you, you know? I was going to help. If you wanted it, I mean. But you clearly don’t, so I guess I’ll just be off.”

“Cure me?” Tonner echoes, disbelieving.

“Yeah. Get rid of the curse. You’ve not always been like that, have you?”

Tonner doesn’t reply. She just sets her jaw and takes a step back. “I’ll see you when the moon is high, witcher.”

Her words sit uneasily in Martin’s gut as he leaves. He hates killing sentient creatures, even when they’re doing harmful and evil things. But without Tonner’s cooperation he knows he can never try to cure her, so it looks as if the option of killing her is quickly becoming the only one.

Then there is the matter of Jon. Tonner said there was something wrong with him, but Martin is finding it hard to believe. Sure, Jon is a bit strange, but he hardly seems to be on his way to become “something awful”. Now that the idea is in his head though, Martin cannot help but turn it over and over, wondering if there is something about Jon that he’s missing. He already knows he isn’t entirely objective when it comes to Jon, but surely it wouldn’t be enough to make him unable to see if there was something monstrous about him?

Martin sighs, deciding to put it out of his mind for now. First he has to focus on Tonner.

The queen grants him an audience far quicker than he thought she would, even though he is starting to expect her swiftness at this point. Jon isn’t present, but Melanie is.

“So. Alice Tonner is the beast, then?” she asks as Martin rises from his bow.

“Yes. I’m completely certain,” he replies.

“Melanie told me she’s in the dungeon at the moment, but what happens now? I believe you mentioned a cure?”

Martin sighs. “I did, yes. Unfortunately, that’s only something I can do if the person in question is willing. She, ah, she refused.”

Queen Georgie sighs as well, looking down at her hands where they rest on the table. “If she won’t accept a cure… Will the cell hold her?”

“I don’t know, your grace.”

“I don’t enjoy the thought of sentencing someone to death, master witcher. Is that my only choice here?”

“I fear it might be, your grace. We can… We can wait and see what happens when she turns tonight? If the bars hold, they hold, but if not, I’ll be there to make sure she doesn’t get out. If she does escape though, I can’t guarantee I won’t have to be lethal in ensuring she doesn’t kill anyone.”

The queen closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. After a moment, she turns to her castellan. “What do you think? Does it sound reasonable?”

“I think so, yes. If she wants to kill people, she doesn’t leave us much of a choice,” Melanie replies.

The queen nods, turning back to Martin. “Alright then. I’ll make sure the guards stay at a safe distance once the moon begins to rise. Be there.”

In the end, he doesn’t even get that far.

After much deliberation, Martin decides to pay Jon a visit, to ask him if he knows what Tonner might have meant. He doesn’t count on Jon to give him an honest answer if he is indeed turning into something else, but at least it can give him a sense of how much Jon knows.

As he is walking from his borrowed chambers to Jon’s, the sound of a heavy bell rings through the air. Not the calm sort that would call people to prayer, no. It’s the hurried sound of an alarm, quickly joined by others.

Martin curses and runs back to his chambers for his swords. Once he has them, he runs back into the corridor, securing the belts around himself as he hurries towards the dungeon.

He expects to see a bloodbath. He expects limbs torn asunder and scattered over the floor and he expects opened guts and organs.

But the guards he sees are alive, though with frightened looks on their faces as they move about the corridors. The door to Tonner’s cell is open. Not torn though. Unlocked.

“What happened?” Martin asks no one in particular. He just hopes someone will answer.

“We came to check in on her and the cell was empty,” a nearby guard replies. She swallows, and Martin has the time to wonder how someone so young ends up in a position like hers. “We’re searching now, master witcher. Our orders are to keep a distance.”

Martin nods. “Right, thank you.”

Instead of joining the search, he runs for the barracks. He still remembers which one Tonner was assigned to, and his enhanced sense of smell guides him once more to the right bed. It has little in the way of personal belongings, but he does manage to find a small knife that carries the werewolf’s scent. Clutching it tightly, he runs back through the castle to bang on Jon’s door.

The mage looks annoyed when he opens, and it doesn’t change when he sees that it’s Martin.

“Thank the gods you’re here,” Martin says, just a little out of breath. “I was worried you’d be out searching with the others.”

Jon shakes his head in confusion. “Searching? What are you talking about?” Then his expression changes, and he looks past Martin into the corridor. “Ah. I see. Have the alarms been going on for long?” There’s an edge to his voice that makes Martin wonder just what it is that just went unsaid, but he has no time to push it.

“A bit. Tonner’s escaped. I— I found this in her quarters—” He shows the knife to Jon, whose eyes widen minutely as he takes a step back. “—and I thought you might be able to cast a tracking spell?”

Jon tears his eyes from the knife for a moment, to look up at Martin. Then he takes another step back to let Martin inside, before closing the door. “Place it on the table there,” he says, pointing. Martin does as he’s told while Jon rummages about for whatever components he needs.

He watches Jon arrange his items around the knife and begin his incantation. His eyes start glowing as he does so. The fresh scar is peeking out from under his collar, and Martin can swear that starts glowing just a bit too.

If Jon was beautiful and fascinating before, watching him cast a spell makes him even more so and Martin finds himself unable to look away. Every single object in the room feels ready to bend to Jon’s will as he commands the Power, and Martin would gladly join them. Then Jon’s hand tenses where it hovers above the knife, and he lets go of the magic. The glow subsides, and while the moment has passed, it still feels like it hangs in the air, waiting.

Jon blinks and frowns. “I can’t find her,” he says, voice faint.

“What do you mean, is she hidden?” Martin asks, only now daring to step closer.

Jon shakes his head. “No, no, she’s— I think she’s too far away? I can— I can sense that she exists, somewhere, but— not anywhere that I can see.”

“Do you think it’s too much to hope that she just decided to leave?” Martin asks. He aims for it to sound cheerful, but misses rather badly.

Jon’s eyes dart to the door. “I don’t know.”

Martin takes another step closer. “Are you— are you afraid?”

“No.” The reply comes a bit too fast.

Martin’s gaze follows Jon’s to the door. Now is as good a time as any, he supposes, and Jon deserves to know. “Attacking you was intentional. Or so she told me,” he says gently.

Jon’s hand twitches upwards, before he lets it relax against the table again. “Why?”

Martin sighs. “She said… she said that you were becoming something awful and that she had to stop it. Do you know what she meant?”

“No. I don’t.” Martin watches Jon’s hand tense against the table. His throat bobs as he swallows, his eyes widen and his eyebrows knit together. He looks worried, but he doesn’t look like he’s lying.

Martin nods. “Okay. Even— Even if she seems to be gone for now, do be careful? Don’t walk alone when the moon is out?”

Jon lets out a chuckle, but it isn’t a happy one. “I won’t.”

Just to be safe, Martin stays for a few more days on the queen’s request. It’s boring, as there isn’t much searching to be done and there are no signs of Tonner. Jon remains in his chambers, so Martin mostly spends his time taking in the sights and meeting what few locals don’t shy away at the sight of him.

After three days, Martin is summoned to once more meet the queen, castellan and court mage by the war table.

“We’re still not entirely safe,” the queen begins, “so I’m afraid I cannot offer you the full payment. But the beast has yet to return and there have been no new killings, so I have decided to deem your contract fulfilled. I will pay you seven hundred ducats instead of the full thousand, and I hope this is acceptable.”

As she speaks, Melanie brings out a heavy pouch. The metal pieces inside it clink as she sets it down onto the table. 

Martin nods. “It is, your grace. Thank you. I’m sorry that I couldn’t finish the contract properly.”

“It’s not your fault,” Queen Georgie decides. “My guards let her escape her cell, not you. Should she return, however, or should another monster pay us a visit, I’ll be sure to summon you again.”

“Thank you, your grace,” Martin says again.

The queen nods. “Alright then. Jon, will you show the witcher to the city gates?”

Martin’s belongings aren’t many, and he soon has them packed and secured to his horse.

“You really don’t have to escort me, I’m sure I can find the gates myself,” he says to Jon as he exits the stable, reins in hand.

“Georgie will never let me hear the end of it if I don’t,” he replies. There’s some annoyance in his words, but a faint smile tugs at his lips nonetheless.

Still, Martin comes up with nothing to say on the walk through the city, and Jon stays just as silent. It isn’t until they reach the gates that Martin manages to speak. “So…” he begins, faltering at the way Jon’s black hair turns almost brown in the morning sun.

“So?” Jon echoes, impatient.

“Um. How’s your throat?” Martin asks.

“It’s alright. Arteries still intact, as you can see.”

“Right. Well, um… Stay safe?”

Jon straightens his back and nods. “Good luck on the Path.”

“Oh. Thanks,” Martin says as Jon turns around and starts walking back towards the castle. Martin takes that as his cue to put his foot into the stirrup and mount his horse. Once he’s in the saddle, he turns around to watch Jon’s back disappear into the crowds. Martin urges his horse into a walk, and as they leave the city behind he wonders if he’ll ever see the strange mage again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They may part for now, but I promise it won't be long before they meet again.
> 
> I have a little bit of a backlog for this fic, but it's getting thinner, so if you like it please consider leaving a comment or a kudos to keep me motivated!


	4. Interlude: Growing Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha sighs, wrapping an arm around herself. “We had the last of the Trials today. Another boy died on that... _awful_ table.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to post this two days ago but the holidays make me forget what time of the week it is.
> 
> Anyway, more flashback time!
> 
> Beta by the awesome [Crunchy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrunchyWrites/pseuds/CrunchyWrites) and encouragement by the lovely elliot.

Sasha hates the Trials.

She knows they’re necessary to make boys into witchers, to have someone who protects people from monsters, but… She has only been at Kaer Lukas for a few years, and already so many boys have died while she and Gertrude have tried to make them into something else.

She doesn’t cry over it, not when Gertrude can see her, but she knows she will once she’s alone.

“It’s a shame,” Gertrude says as she starts to undo the buckles. The chamber is eerily quiet now that it’s no longer filled with anguished screams. “I thought this one was going to make it.”

The last buckle comes undone and as if on cue, an old witcher steps into the room. He pauses long enough to give the limp body a solemn look, before he wraps the poor thing in cloth, hiding away the ashen skin with veins that have turned a sickly green. When the body is wrapped, he carries it away, never saying a word.

“Two out of seven isn’t a bad number, Sasha. Not at all,” Gertrude points out while they continue to put everything in order.

“I know.”

“Then stop beating yourself up about it. If you’re going to run this place someday you need to have the stomach for it.”

“You plan on leaving?” Sasha asks, before realising she might be speaking out of turn.

“It never hurts to take precautions.”

“If only there were precautions to take for these poor boys,” Sasha murmurs, mostly to herself. It’s loud enough that Gertrude hears it.

“If only.”

It’s still on her mind hours later, even when she’s actively trying to distract herself.

“Sasha?”

The voice, vaguely tinny, reaches her from the mirror. She made a matching set when she was told she would be going to Kaer Lukas, to still be able to stay in touch many miles away. Getting one half to Jon, her once classmate and one of the most empathic mages she had ever met, had been difficult but not impossible. At the moment, he has been talking without her listening.

“Yeah, I’m here,” she says. “I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

“It— It doesn’t matter.” The worry in his brown eyes are visible even through the hazy mirror. “Why did you really wish to talk?”

Sasha sighs, wrapping an arm around herself. “We had the last of the Trials today. Another boy died on that... _ awful _ table.”

Jon is silent for a moment. “I’m sorry. I know you did what you could.”

“But it’s not enough! There has to be a way to increase the survival rate. I know it.”

“Well, if anyone could find a way, it would be you.”

It’s enough to prompt her lips to twitch into a smile, albeit a small one. “Thanks. Anyway, how— How are things at Ban Ard? You probably told me already, but I’ll admit I’m a bit unfocused.”

“Things are alright. Master Bouchard says I’ll soon be done with my education, actually.”

“I’d say that it’s about time, but you don’t sound thrilled. What’s wrong?”

Jon drags a hand through his black hair. It’s starting to get a bit long again. “It’s the...vagueness of it all, I suppose. He keeps saying he has all of these grand plans and that I’ll learn about them in due time, but I don’t actually know when ‘due time’ is supposed to be. And when it comes to the transformation itself, he keeps coming with suggestions.”

Sasha winces. “You know you don’t have to listen to any of that, right? They kept pushing me to make my hair straight, but once it’s time for the final decision they’re not actually in there with you.”

“You would look rather strange with straight hair,” Jon agrees, seeming to relax a little.

“I know, right? Don’t let them make you choose anything you’re not comfortable with, okay? It’s about your ideal, no one else’s.”

Jon nods. “Right. Right, I’ll remember that.”

A knock on the door startles them both, before Tim’s deep voice can be heard muffled through the heavy planks.

“Are you decent in there, Sash? I mean, I can come in either way, but…”

“I’m busy!” Sasha calls back. “Sorceress stuff!”

“Is that supposed to make me less curious?” Tim’s smile is audible, and it’s not hard for Sasha to picture him leaning one shoulder against the doorframe.

“Really, Tim, I’m busy. I’ll be down for supper,” she tells him, smiling.

“Alright, alright. I love it when you’re mysterious anyway.”

As his footsteps recede, Sasha looks back down at the mirror. Her face feels a bit warm, and Jon looks rather uncomfortable himself.

“Friend of yours?” he asks.

“Er… Yeah. Yeah, he’s a friend.”

“Is he always like that?”

Sasha chuckles. “More or less. He’s nice though. I like him.”

“That’s good then, I suppose,” Jon says with a nod. “Do you...need to go?”

Sasha shakes her head. “No, not just yet.”

When she eventually does make it down to the mess hall, Sasha’s friends are easy to spot. Tim is tall, always has been for as long as Sasha has known him, and his head pokes over most others in the queue. Martin is much the same; though he was about Sasha’s height when she first arrived, he soon hit a growth spurt strong enough to make him almost as tall as Tim.

It’s Martin who spots her, his amber cat eyes lighting up as they land on her. He nudges and says something to Tim, who turns around with a grin and waves her over.

“Hi boys,” she says once she has crossed the hall. A few younger witchers in training, too young to have gone through the Trial of the Grasses, glare at her as she cuts into the line but don’t dare to say anything about it.

“Hi Sasha. How’re you holding up?” Martin asks. His voice is surprisingly gentle for someone who looks like he does.

“I’m a bit better now. At least it’s over,” she says, shrugging.

“Good thing we’ve got a special surprise for tonight then,” Tim says. The way he wiggles his eyebrows is enough to make Sasha let out a short laugh.

“If you talk about it it’s not going to be a surprise,” Martin mutters, poking Tim in the side.

“Sure it will!”

“You’re the worst.”

Tim gasps, in that exaggerated way of his. “You wound me, Martin! I don’t think I’ll ever recover!”

“You’ll be wounded during training tomorrow if you don’t get a move on.” The stern voice cuts through Tim’s dramatics, and the trio turn to face one of the senior witchers. Tim offers a salute, Martin does his best to look small, and Sasha nods. They fetch their food in silence, letting the chatter in the rest of the mess hall keep them company until they have found somewhere to sit.

The surprise, it turns out, is a very nice bottle of alcohol. Not as nice as what Sasha would get at Aretuza, but by Kaer Lukas standards it’s spectacular. Tim refuses to divulge where and how he got it, but they finish the bottle together while hiding out in a storage room.

Tim spends a good while trying to overtly flirt with the both of them before he promptly falls asleep against some sacks of grain. He looks peaceful in the warm light of the lantern, and with his eyes closed he might as well have been a normal boy cresting into adulthood.

“You like him, don’t you?” Martin says, pulling Sasha from her thoughts.

“Of course I do. I like both of you,” she says.

Martin shakes his head. “No, no, not like that. Like more than a friend, I mean.”

Sasha thinks about it. Tries to picture herself living out the rest of her days with Tim by her side. It doesn’t hold as much appeal as she thinks it should, though she cannot say why. So she shrugs. “I don’t know. What about you?”

“What about me?” Martin echoes, too airy to sound completely casual.

“Do  _ you  _ like him as more than a friend?”

Martin shrugs and doesn’t meet her eyes. “I don’t know.”

It’s silly. It’s so silly that Sasha can’t quite contain it, and the silliness escapes her in a burst of giggles. It’s probably the alcohol, reasons the part of her brain that remains rational.

“What?” Martin says.

Sasha just giggles again, before the silliness bleeds over into nostalgia and takes the form of a sigh. “Aretuza was never like this,” she says.

“No?”

“No, it was all too… Too political to ever let you relax. You barely couldn’t tell anyone you cared for them even a little, because you never knew if that would be used against you or not. And I hear Ban Ard is only slightly better off. Mages are  _ weird.” _ She shakes her head, leaning against Martin’s side. He’s warm. Like a blanket.

“You’re a mage,” Martin points out.

“I know,” she says. “I wanted to be one ever since I was a child, I wasn’t about to let the weirdness put a stop to that.”

“Hm. Guess not,” Martin reasons. If he says anything more after that, Sasha doesn’t remember it. In fact, she doesn’t remember anything until many hours later, when she wakes up still wearing her clothes but tucked carefully into her bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe I should switch to Friday updates anyway, to make it easier to remember. Please let me know if you have any preference!  
> And please let me know if you liked the chapter!


	5. Shrouded, Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Jon?” Martin manages after a few seconds. “I— Hello.”
> 
> As he looks at him, it feels like the last three years haven’t happened at all. He can still remember, clear as day, holding Jon close and making sure he didn’t bleed out. He can still remember making him tea, and he can still remember Jon weaving magic into his words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Officially moving the update to every other Friday, feels like I'm gonna keep that up better!
> 
> Anyway, we're back to Jon and Martin. Enjoy!
> 
> Beta by the awesome [Crunchy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrunchyWrites/pseuds/CrunchyWrites) and encouragement by the lovely elliot.

Only years later does Martin return to Aedirn.

His winters have been spent in Kaer Lukas with whomever has made it up there each year, and his summers have been spent all across the Northern Realms, chasing after work. Not that he has had to do much chasing — on the contrary, work has been rather plentiful. Unfortunately, lucrative times for witchers mean hard times for the people, but Martin tries to tell himself he’s at least doing some good in the world.

While the winters are filled with companionship as they all take shelter from the cold, the warmer months are lonely. Few people care to spend some time in the company of a witcher, either too frightened or too prejudiced to see Martin for the person he is. But perhaps it’s for the best, he sometimes muses. Witchers are solitary creatures after all, if Peter’s teachings are anything to go by.

Still, even solitary creatures need provisions and even if Martin can take care of a lot on his own, getting a new sword is something he does need to visit a smith for. Usually, he would deal with such things at Kaer Lukas, where the smith knows exactly what a witcher needs, but at the moment there are far too many leagues between him and the keep. It’s not a distance he would be keen to travel without a proper steel sword, at least.

With Vengerberg being the closest city, and where he is the most likely to find a decent smith, that is where he decides to head. Memories of his last visit rise to the surface of his mind as he crosses the city gates, but he tries not to dwell on them. The past is the past, and all that.

Martin soon gets his horse stabled and then sets to wandering the city, enjoying the feeling of getting to stretch his legs after many hours in the saddle. Some of the paths and turns are still familiar, even now, but he does end up having to ask where to find the city’s best smith.

As it turns out, it’s not far. The shop itself, once Martin finds it, is a humble building, with a forge smoldering outside. No smith is to be seen however, but Martin can hear muffled voices coming from inside the shop. He steps inside, seeing the smith in question standing behind the counter; a dwarven woman with thick arms, a leather apron protecting her front. She is talking to a customer with their back to the door.

“—thing for protection. Something small and concealable, ideally,” the customer says, in a voice that Martin could swear he’s heard before.

“Well, that depends what ye want to be protected against,” the smith replies, scratching her beard. “Ye’ll not need much to stop a lone burglar in the street, but if it’s a trained soldier ye’re fearing, or a monster? Ye’ll need something a bit more than just a small dagger.”

“But a small dagger would slow something — or someone — down, at least?”

The smith shrugs. “It really depends on if ye manage to hit.” Her gaze moves from the customer, then, to land at Martin. “Or what do ye say, master witcher?”

Martin startles, not quite prepared to be addressed. He straightens his back a little. “Well, yes, that— That is a deciding factor. What do you think will attack you?”

It’s barely perceptible, but the customer’s shoulders stiffen slightly. Then they turn around, watching Martin with careful and calculating, unnaturally green eyes. “Hello, Martin.”

“Jon?” Martin manages after a few seconds. “I— Hello.”

As he looks at him, it feels like the last three years haven’t happened at all. He can still remember, clear as day, holding Jon close and making sure he didn’t bleed out. He can still remember making him tea, and he can still remember Jon weaving magic into his words.

And at the same time, it looks like Jon has lived an entire life while Martin has been away. There is more grey in his hair than Martin remembers, and the dark circles underneath his eyes make it look like he hasn’t slept for days. The most prominent change, however, is the scars. They look like regular pockmarks at first, but they’re larger and all perfectly circular. A few are scattered across Jon’s cheeks and several can be seen on his throat, surrounding the now faded line from the werewolf’s claw. Martin spots another mark on Jon’s hand, and has the time to wonder how much more of him has been exposed to whatever caused this.

“Well?” Jon says after a moment, arching an eyebrow.

“Wha— Sorry?” Martin manages.

“I think you’re aware of what I would like to protect myself against, so what would your recommendation be?” Jon asks.

“Oh. Well, for— For _wolves_ I would say that you need something that will keep them at a distance. If they get close enough they’ll already be at an advantage.”

“And if keeping them away fails, and they do get close?” Jon sounds impatient.

“Then, yeah, a dagger is good to have. Something small enough that it’s easily maneuvered, but still long enough to cut deeper than muscle. Seven inches, give or take,” Martin suggests. “And since you won’t exactly be fencing with it, you might as well have it made of silver.”

“A silver dagger then, seven inches? Aye, I could have that made for ye,” the smith says. Martin had almost forgotten she was there.

Jon turns back around to face her. “That would be appreciated. Thank you.”

“As long as ye’ve got the coin, I’m happy to be of service.”

When Jon steps past Martin and through the door a few moments later, he pointedly doesn’t look at him. Martin wants to follow him, but he can’t imagine it would be appreciated. Besides, he has a sword to order. Sighing, he walks up to the counter and begins to tell the smith what he needs.

Eventually, he makes his way back out of the shop and onto the sunlit street. His sword will take almost a week to have made, but until he can have it he knows he will just have to lay low. Maybe he can have a look at some of the other shops in the city, even if his funds are taking a hefty hit from the sword commission.

“So what brings you back to Aedirn?” Jon’s voice startles him, and Martin looks up to see him leaning against the wall of the adjacent building.

“Oh! Well, I’m just passing through, really,” Martin replies, taking a few steps closer. “I was in need of a new sword, and Vengerberg seemed to be the place most likely to have a good blacksmith.”

Jon nods. “Right. No...particular monster sightings?”

“None so more than usual. Unless you know of something? I’m a bit useless until I have both my swords again, but I’d still be happy to help,” Martin offers.

“I— I don’t know. There— Well, there was the pesta, a while ago, as you can see.” Jon gestures with his hand towards his face.

“A plague maiden did that?”

“Her worms did,” Jon replies, and looks to be suppressing a shiver.

“That’s— That’s awful, Jon. I’m so sorry.” Martin wants to place a comforting hand on his arm, but doubts it would be welcome.

Jon straightens his shoulders. “It was hardly your fault. Nor was it your comrade’s.”

“Pardon?”

“One of your fellow witchers was here at the time we were suffering from the maiden. His name is Tim. I believe you know each other?”

Relief washes over Martin. He hasn’t seen Tim in quite some time, and to hear that he’s alive and well is a welcome piece of news. “Yeah. Yeah, we grew up together,” he confirms. “How was he?”

“Cooperative enough,” Jon says. “But less so after the pesta finally overran us. He got his own collection of scars as well.”

“Oh,” is all Martin can manage. So much for the relief. “But he...is alive, though, right?”

“Last I saw him, yes.”

Martin exhales. “Okay. Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For letting me know, I suppose.”

“Right.” Jon shifts in his spot. “I did— I could still use some of your expertise. If you’re available.”

“Yeah, of course,” Martin says, perhaps a bit too eagerly. “Are you still living at the castle?”

“Yes,” Jon replies, and it is clear by his tone that the answer should have been obvious.

“Did you want me to come now, or…?”

“Yes, Martin, now would be good,” Jon says, not bothering to hide his impatience.

“Okay,” Martin replies, cringing at his own awkwardness.

They walk in silence after that, though Martin is itching to speak. He wants to ask Jon how he’s been, besides his encounter with the pesta, and he wants to know if there have been any traces of Tonner. He wants to fill the silence that seems so tangible despite the general hubbub of the city around them, but he doesn’t manage to and with every second he just feels it grow tenser.

Eventually, Jon is the one to break it.

“What is it, Martin?” he says with a deep sigh.

“What?”

“You keep opening your mouth as if you have something to say, and then you never get any further than that.”

Martin draws up his shoulders, wishing he wasn’t so obvious. “Oh. Well. I just— I just wanted to ask how you’ve been? Besides what happened with the pesta, I mean.”

“I don’t really know what there is to tell,” Jon replies. “My duties are much the same as they were when we last met, even if the threats to the city and the kingdom may vary.”

“You have a lot of those then? Threats?” Martin asks.

“Not many. As I’m sure you know, politics are...reasonably calm at the moment, and besides the pesta there haven’t really been any attacks on the city since the werewolf.”

“That’s good, then.”

“There shouldn’t have been any at all, though,” Jon objects, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. “I’ve put up enough wards that no spirit with ill intent should be able to have much power within the city, let alone the castle, and yet— I’m missing something. And it’s only a matter of time before something attacks again.”

“I could take a look at those wards for you, if you’d like,” Martin offers. “I know quite a bit about them, what with being a witcher and all.”

Jon turns to look at him, his eyes glowing faintly as they study Martin’s face. Then he nods, and a tiny hint of a smile comes over his lips. “That would be helpful. Thank you.”

Less than an hour later they are standing in Jon’s chambers, books splayed open and sheets of paper spread out over the work table. They all depict various symbols and wards, most of which Martin recognises from his training. Plenty of them he has also had reason to use himself, when placing a protection on a village or homestead. He tells Jon as much, but his fingers stop over an unfamiliar symbol, carefully drawn on fine paper. “What’s this one? I haven’t seen it before.”

Jon looks over. “Ah. That’s one I learned from my mentor at Ban Ard. It’s used to fortify other wards and to make them last longer.”

“That’s convenient,” Martin mumbles, letting his fingers hover above the symbol. The fact that he doesn’t recognise it at all, not even any of its building blocks, makes him a bit unnerved. But if Jon got it from his mentor, he’s not going to question it.

“It’s very useful,” Jon agrees. Apparently satisfied with the spread of symbols, he brings out a different piece of paper, larger and rolled up. As he crosses the room to place it atop another table, Martin finds himself watching him, taking in every detail from the determined and focused look on his face, to the way his hair cascades down his shoulders and how his robes move with his quick strides. He’s still just as beautiful, and Martin is still just as fascinated.

He keeps watching until Jon lifts his head, shifting his focus from the paper in front of him to Martin. “Well?” he says. “Are you coming?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Martin says, blinking himself out of whatever just overcame him, and makes his way over to Jon’s table.

What lies spread on top of it is a map. Two maps really, one outlining the entire city with its walls and sewage system, and one detailing the castle. All over them both Jon has noted placements for his various wards, along with dates.

“That’s organised,” Martin comments.

“Organisation is important.”

“I never said it wasn’t.”

Jon seems caught off guard, as if he was expecting Martin to argue. “Oh,” he says, glancing up at Martin and then back to the maps. “I suppose you didn’t.”

“So this is where you have all your wards?” Martin says, more for the sake of having something to say rather than needing clarification. 

“Yes. These,” Jon moves his hand across the maps in a sweeping motion, touching his finger down at certain spots, “are fairly recent, but I would appreciate it if you could help me have a look at the rest.”

“That’s a lot of them.”

“I’m aware. You will be compensated for your time, of course, and I will come with you for the inspections. I’ll ask Georgie if you can borrow the guest rooms again for your stay,” Jon says, flattening his palms against the maps.

“Thank you,” Martin tells him. “You know, I had kind of forgotten how familiar you and Melanie are when you speak of the Queen.”

Jon snorts, but does so with a wry smile on his lips. “Well. Georgie and I were a couple, for a short time, and her and Melanie are a couple now. It would be rather strange to insist on formality and titles.”

Jon’s tone is pleasant and amiable, so there is really no reason for Martin to feel like someone just placed a stone in his gut. It happens nonetheless, and all Martin can manage to salvage the conversation is a tight smile. “Right. That makes sense,” he says. And because he is so good at putting his foot in his mouth, he continues: “Aaand now?”

“What do you mean, ‘and now’?” Jon asks, standing up straight again, facing Martin.

“Well, I mean, are you part of another couple, I guess? I imagine it would get kind of awkward otherwise, just you doing your thing while they’re doing theirs…” Martin forces himself to trail off. Despite all his witcher training, no one could ever get rid of his nervous babbling.

Jon narrows his eyes. “I would hardly say that it’s awkward. But no, I am on my own.” He clears his throat. “Not that that’s any of your business.”

Martin fixates his gaze on the wall across the room. “Right, no, of course not. Sorry.”

“Shall we get going then?”

Walking with Jon through the city brings with it a sense of déjà vu, though this time it’s not raining, and this time they’re not hunting a cursed beast. That lends the whole excursion a rather more pleasant atmosphere, Martin thinks, which stays until the moment they enter the sewage system.

“Oh that is _foul,”_ he groans as the smell hits him.

“Aren’t there monsters that smell just as bad?” Jon asks. His face is more controlled, but he does pull up his collar to cover his mouth and nose.

“Well, yeah, but that doesn’t make this any nicer,” Martin points out. “Besides, it’s been a while since I had reason to go to any swamps or sewers.”

“Got comfortable with the smell of people and horseshit instead, then?”

“Easy for you to say, living in a castle.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t occasionally walk through the city.”

“Still, you can escape it when you want to,” Martin says. “Anyway, where to now?”

“This way,” Jon says, and begins to lead them through the sewage system. Thankfully there are walkways on the sides, sparing them from having to walk in the sewage itself, but the smell remains. Their footsteps echo between the cold stone walls, and along with the slow dripping of water it’s enough to make the whole thing feel rather eerie.

Martin is about to comment on it when he feels a faint vibration coming from his witcher medallion. He reaches out an arm to stop Jon, and the mage looks at him quizzically.

“We’re not alone,” Martin says, looking out over the murky water and drawing his silver sword. “Stay back.”

The surface of the sewage ripples, before a drowner breaks it with an angry hiss. Martin is distantly aware of Jon yelping behind him as the drowner leaps towards them. With Jon so close, Martin can’t focus too much on avoiding the creature’s strikes, so instead he goes on the offensive as quick as he can.

He swings, but the bloated body before him ducks and goes for his legs. When it does, Martin swipes at its pale arms and gets enough of a hit that the drowner draws back with a pained sound. Taking advantage of the situation, Martin goes to slash at it again, but feints and thrusts his sword through its abdomen instead.

He jerks the sword upward, foul ichor spilling out of both the wound and the creature’s mouth, and then raises a leg to kick the drowner off of his sword and back into the sewage.

The whole thing is over in a matter of seconds, and when his medallion doesn’t vibrate to signal any more of the things coming their way, Martin sighs and reaches for a cloth to wipe his sword clean. “Hate those things,” he mutters.

“You— That— It—” Jon stammers, and Martin turns to face him. His eyes are wide, their faint glow almost a flicker, his chest is heaving and his back is pressed to the wall. Finally, he manages to collect himself. “Is that it?” he asks, carefully.

“For now,” Martin replies. “I don’t know how many others might be around though, so we’d better get a move on.”

“Right,” Jon says, but remains in his spot. He keeps staring at the water where the drowner emerged and fell.

Martin looks at him, trying to think of something to say. Most of the sewage water had splashed onto Martin, but some of it has gotten on Jon too. There is a stain, high on his cheek. “You have, er, a bit of…” Martin says, raising his hand to show it on his own face.

As if having lit a flame, Jon suddenly moves, scrubbing at his face with both hands to get rid of it. He somehow manages to miss it, and suddenly Martin is stepping closer, his hand raised in a question.

“Just get it off,” Jon snaps.

Martin does, wiping the small stain away with a gloved finger. Jon flinches a little at the touch, but stays otherwise still. “There,” Martin says, pulling his hand back. “Not as good as new, per se, but as good as you’re gonna get at the moment.”

Jon clears his throat, straightens up, and does his best to adjust his robes. “Alright then,” he says. “Let’s keep going.”

They do so. After a few minutes of walking, Martin dares to break the silence. “I take it the drowner wasn’t a normal occurrence then?”

“No,” Jon replies, tense.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m with you, I guess. It’s not unusual to have drowners in a city sewer system, though, and it seemed to be a solitary one rather than part of an infestation,” Martin says.

“Lovely.” Jon picks up the pace, before he abruptly stops and turns around. Martin manages to stop before he runs into him. “Do you think it’s a coincidence?”

“What?”

“Do you think it’s a coincidence? That creature showing up now, when we’re going to check on the wards? Or do you think there could be something else behind this?”

Martin falls silent for a moment. “Well,” he says then, “I hardly think the drowner wanted us for anything else than a meal. As far as creatures go, they don’t have much in the way of intelligence.”

“But what if someone let it in? What if someone doesn’t want me to have the wards up, what if someone has already removed some of them—”

“Whoa, whoa!” Martin interrupts, gripping Jon’s arm. It makes him stop speaking, and stare right at Martin. “One thing at a time, okay? Let’s see how the wards are looking, before we jump to any conclusions.” Realising he’s probably overstepping, he pulls his hand back. “Besides, even if there are more drowners, I won’t let them get you. You hired me to help, and that includes protection.” He would protect Jon even if he wasn’t paid to do it, of course, but he keeps that to himself.

“This isn’t the first time, though,” Jon objects. “The werewolf came for _me,_ remember? Why was that? And so did the others.”

“The others? You mean the pesta?” As Martin speaks, a fat rat scutters along the floor on the other side of the sewer, making them both jump. When Martin speaks again, he keeps his voice softer. “Look. How about we talk about this when we’re back at the castle, and just focus on the wards for now? I always find that a cup of tea helps calm the nerves.”

Jon looks like he’s about to argue, then closes his eyes and sighs. Martin tries not to pay attention to the way his black eyelashes fan out over his cheeks. “Fine. Yes, you’re probably right. Let’s go.”

“Lead the way.”

Jon’s wards, it turns out, are fine. By the time dusk starts to settle in, all the wards they have visited have been completely undisturbed. For some reason though, that doesn’t seem to reassure Jon.

“It’s getting late,” Martin says. “Drowners tend to be more active at night, so we’d best get back on the streets and continue this tomorrow.”

“But we haven’t found anything yet,” Jon objects.

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“We haven’t _found anything,”_ Jon repeats, throwing his arms out. “If it’s not the wards, something else is wrong, and I don’t know what it could be.”

“There are still more wards to check. But we do it while the sun’s up, okay? Unless you want to make friends with the drowners?”

Jon’s shoulders sag. “No. No, I don’t.”

“Then come on. I promised you tea, didn’t I?”

They make their way back up into the streets, both relishing in the fresh air there. Jon doesn’t seem to relax, however, but Martin chooses not to comment on that.

The stable where Martin left his horse and his belongings isn’t far, so they stop there to fetch everything after Jon has promised that there is more than enough room in the royal stables. The mare seems happy to get to stretch her legs after spending the entire afternoon standing still, and eventually seems content with her more luxurious accommodations.

Martin doesn’t complain either, when he gets to set down his bags in one of the castle’s guest chambers. He spends a long time just soaking in a proper hot bath for the first time in a long time, letting the heat sink into him until his toes and fingers have pruned. Once he’s finally satisfied, he gets up and dresses in his clean spare shirt, forgoing his armoured jacket for the evening. Wearing the trousers and boots that are still dirty is uncomfortable, but he hasn’t been able to carry any extra pairs while living on the road. He doesn’t mind it so much though; he’s used to it, after all.

Still, thanks to the bath he does feel rather good about himself as he makes his way to Jon’s chambers. With him he carries only his smallest dagger and his tea, and while it’s strange to walk around so unprotected, he looks forward to being able to relax a little bit for once.

If Jon notices that Martin has dressed down, he doesn’t mention it when he opens the door for him. Jon himself has traded his dirty robes for a clean, softer-looking set with golden embroidery along the hems. His hair is dry despite evidently being freshly washed, falling down to his shoulders in heavy, black curls, and the many candles lit around the room almost makes his skin glow. He looks downright lovely, Martin thinks, but he doesn’t dare to say it out loud.

Both of them stay mostly silent while Martin prepares their tea. But once they’re seated in comfortable armchairs with a warm cup in their hands, Martin takes a deep breath and readies himself. “So,” he says. “What is it that you’re scared of? I’m here to help.”

Jon looks up at him for a moment, before his gaze drifts to somewhere on the floor. He’s quiet for a long time, and when he eventually speaks that’s quiet too. “I don’t know. Everything? Anything?”

“Is it Tonner? Are you worried she could come back?”

“Yes,” Jon admits. “And the pesta, and the djinn and the golem, and I’m worried that something entirely new is going to add itself to the rest, and I have no idea when it’s going to happen but I am _certain_ that it will.”

“Then we’ll have to try and prevent it,” Martin says. “The— The golem and the djinn, did they attack after the pesta did, or…?”

Jon shakes his head. “No, no, they were before the werewolf, even. Both were short attacks against the castle, but they were...intense. When I fought the djinn it made it so I couldn’t breathe. And when I fought the golem it— It grabbed me and it grabbed _into_ me. I’m no stranger to invasive procedures but that was something else entirely.” He lets go of his cup with one hand, bringing it instead to wrap around himself. “ To— To know that things like that can do such things than that I don’t know how to stop it. It’s terrifying. I don’t even know _why_ they’ve come, if someone has been sending them or if they’re acting of their own volition. Or which alternative would be worse. Or— Or if they’re after the castle and the kingdom and I have just been in their way, or if they’re after _me.”_

When Jon doesn’t continue, Martin thinks carefully before he speaks. “I can’t know that, but I’d like to help you find out,” he says. “But… This world is a dangerous place. And it’s alright to be afraid.”

“I don’t want to be,” Jon retorts.

“I know. And hopefully you won’t have to be for much longer. We’ll continue with inspecting the wards tomorrow, and then we’ll work out the whys and the hows. I promise I won’t let anything happen to you while I’m here.”

Jon looks up to meet his gaze. The fear is still present in his eyes, but it looks like for now, at least, he is willing to place his trust in Martin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're still enjoying the story! Please leave a kudos and a comment if you do, it means so much for my motivation!
> 
> A little note about something my friend pointed out: Golems are of course something that originates from Jewish beliefs. As I am not Jewish myself, I would not be comfortable including it in any worldbuilding of my own (at the very least not without proper consultation). They do however feature relatively frequently in the Witcher source material, which is why I did mention one in this chapter.


	6. Interlude: Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A “worm problem” they had called it. Such a load of horseshit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another interlude, but with some very familiar faces!
> 
> Beta by the awesome [Crunchy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrunchyWrites/pseuds/CrunchyWrites) and encouragement by the lovely elliot.

Tim never should have taken the bloody contract.

A “worm problem” they had called it. Such a load of horseshit.

He coughs as he pushes aside the torn fabric of his trousers in order to reach the worms that have burrowed their way into his thigh. Thankfully they all died when he slew the disgusting cesspool of a pesta, but they didn’t have the decency to vanish into thin air like she did. So here he is, using his smallest dagger to carve into his own flesh in order to get them out, all while he’s trying not to throw up.

Not that he’s squeamish — he’s a witcher, for fuck’s sake — but there are just so  _ many _ of them.

It’s some time before he has managed to get all of them out and triple checked himself all over, but Jon is still passed out on the floor next to him. The poor mage got knocked out by the gas from the bomb Tim threw when the worms started burrowing into them. Tim moves onto him now, slowly extracting dead worm after dead worm from him.

When he’s about halfway through, the mage wakes up.

He does so with a jolt and a scream, and Tim only has his quick reflexes to thank that he doesn’t slice something open. “Welcome back to the land of the living, mate,” he says.

Jon looks around them, then pats his hands all over himself, wincing as they pass over his fresh wounds. “What— What happened?”

“The plague maiden is dead and so are the worms, but they’re still...present. I’m trying to get all of them out, so if you wouldn’t mind?” Tim says, waving his knife a little in the air.

Jon startles at that, then goes very still. As Tim goes back to work, Jon seems to be torn between watching the knife and looking away as much as possible.

“Is it going to take much longer?” he asks after a while.

“It’ll take as long as it takes,” Tim replies. “And then you need to get all of this bandaged.”

“You haven’t bandaged yourself.”

Tim frowns at a worm that has chewed its way particularly far into the flesh. “I’m a witcher, I heal fast. You have no such perks that I’m aware of though, so the rules are a bit different for you.”

“Fair enough,” Jon says, wincing as the knife goes in. “You’re certain it’s dead then? The pesta?”

“Again, I’m a witcher. I know what I’m doing,” Tim assures, flicking the dead worm onto the ground.

“Right. And it won’t...come back? Or another one of its kind?”

“Pestas are spectres, they don’t exactly live in packs,” Tim explains. “This was the twisted soul of a dead woman, and now it’s gone.”

“If only it had taken the worms with it,” Jon mutters.

“If only. You’re gonna get quite the set of scars from this, I’m afraid.”

“Won’t you, as well?”

Tim shrugs, ignoring how the motion pulls at his torn muscles. It’s something to be upset about later. “Sure, but it’s an occupational hazard at this point. Besides, I already have plenty of scars, so a couple more won’t make much of a difference. Not that you were completely unscathed before either, though. What happened to your neck?”

Jon reaches up, fingers brushing against the line across his throat. “Werewolf.”

Tim can’t deny it; he’s a bit impressed. Few survive such an encounter. “How’d you get away?” he asks.

Jon clears his throat, then makes a pained sound as Tim goes for another worm. “Ah. One of your colleagues, actually. Martin?”

Tim perks up at that. Small world. “Martin? Big guy, red hair, nice smile?”

Tim throws a glance at Jon’s face, watching a tiny, surprised smile appear there. “Um. Yes, actually. You know him?”

“Yeah,” Tim says, finally getting the worm to stick on the knife and pulling it out. “He’s practically my brother.”

“You don’t look alike.”

Tim chuckles. “Not by blood. But you grow up with someone, go through enough weird shit with them, you become family.”

“I see.”

They’re silent throughout the process of removing another couple of worms, until Tim recalls that Martin has indeed talked about Jon before. For how many court mages can there really be in Aedirn with sharp features and shining eyes? The realisation is enough for a smirk to find its way to his lips. “You know,” he drawls, pulling out a worm, “Martin  _ has  _ mentioned you.”

“He has?” Jon sounds surprised  _ and  _ intrigued. Bingo.

“Oh yeah. Or, I mean, he wrote about you in his journal. I’m sure he’ll find a reason to go back to Vengerberg soon enough.”

“He keeps a journal?”

“Sure. For his wistful musings about the world and all that,” Tim replies. He would never invade Martin’s privacy and just read it, of course, but drunken bets are often a good way to get permission.

“Wistful musings?” Jon asks. His brow is scrunched up from the pain, but there’s something else beneath that expression as well.

Tim shrugs. “I haven’t read too much of it. But despite our harsh reality and our even harsher profession, I know Martin is the type to always stay at least somewhat positive. Find the nice things when and where he can, you know?”

Jon scoffs. “I hardly think his meeting with me would be considered a nice thing.”

What an optimist — perhaps opposites really do attract. Tim wouldn’t admit it, but he might not be as careful as he should be as he moves on to the next worm. “I think that’s the last of them. Want me to check you over or would you rather do that yourself?”

“I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself, thank you,” Jon huffs, but winces even as he stands up.

“I’ll get the bandages then,” Tim concludes, reaching for his pack.

Around them the ground is covered with dead, silvery worms, materialised from the human fear of disease. Tim will have to burn them once they’re done here, and even imagining the stench that that will cause is enough to make him want to be sick all over again. He doesn’t though, and even Jon keeps it together admirably well.

If he ever has to fight another pesta again it’ll be too soon, that’s for sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am...slowly thinning out my backlog and really should focus on writing this more. If you enjoy it, please let me know, 'cause it might motivate me!


	7. Shrouded, Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Did you see that?” Jon hisses as they walk along an empty corridor of the castle.
> 
> Martin frowns. “See what?”
> 
> “It just rounded the corner up ahead. It looked like a shadow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again we return to present-day Jon and Martin! I hope you enjoy!

Despite reassurances made over hot tea, Jon looks exhausted come morning. The circles underneath his eyes are darker than they were the day before, and when he greets Martin after breakfast it is only with a curt “Let’s get going.” Martin tries not to take it too personally, but he can’t help but feel a little bad about it; he thought they had been making progress last night, after all.

The rest of the wards in the sewers turn out to be in good condition, and the inspection itself passes by with only one more drowner encounter that day. When the afternoon rolls around, Jon and Martin manage to move on to the wards above ground. Neither of them appear to have been damaged or tampered with either, and this pattern continues the following day when they manage to check off the last of the overground wards, as well as the next, when they go over the wards inside the castle.

What doesn’t appear to remain intact, however, is Jon’s composure.

With each intact ward they find he becomes more worried rather than assured, and Martin loses count of how many times Jon stays by a ward to frantically find proof of sabotage. After their second encounter with a drowner he becomes jumpy, and nothing Martin says seems to help.

“Did you see that?” he hisses as they walk along an empty corridor of the castle.

Martin frowns. “See what?”

“It just rounded the corner up ahead. It looked like a shadow.”

“What kind of shadow?” Martin asks, a dozen possibilities running through his mind.

“What do you mean ‘what kind of shadow’? A shadow! Looming, stalking, whatever it is that shadows do!”

Not wanting to unnerve Jon further, Martin steps ahead of him and presses on. He can feel his medallion hum slightly, but it has been doing that a lot around Jon. It’s not unusual for the aura of magic users to disturb the effect of the medallion, however, so Martin can only hope that he can trust his senses instead.

But as he rounds the corner, with Jon at his heels, there is nothing. No stray servant or guard, or even any animal having found its way inside. The medallion continues its faint humming and Martin frowns.

“I could have sworn…” Jon murmurs from behind him.

“That’s okay,” Martin assures. “False alarms happen.”

“I don’t—” Jon begins, then cuts himself off with a scoff and walks on.

“Jon—”

“It’s fine. I thought I saw something, but I didn’t. Let’s just get this over with,” he decides, sounding decidedly not fine.

When the day comes to an end, Jon declines Martin’s offer for tea. And help. And company.

Martin obliges, of course, telling himself he has no right to feel rejected. Jon has hired him and doesn’t intend to be his friend. There’s no need for such delusions, Peter would tell him. A witcher needs only himself, after all. Martin has never quite been able to take that sentiment to heart.

The next morning he knocks on Jon’s door, hoping that a new day can come with a new start. He has no such luck though, and Jon opens looking like a wreck.

“What?” he snaps.

“We’re supposed to continue go over the security?” Martin says, his words lilting up into a question. He recalls them agreeing that today would be spent trying to map out Jon’s previous attackers, but the look on Jon’s face makes him question his memory.

“Right now?”

“Well...yes? I mean it is morning, I’ve come by at this hour the past couple of days, so I thought—”

“It’s morning already?” Jon asks, turning his head around to look at the window in the room behind him. “Huh. What do you know.”

“Jon… Have you not slept?” Martin asks. There are a lot of things regarding Jon that are worthy enough of concern, but this takes priority for the moment.

“I’ve been busy,” Jon simply says.

“Right.”

Jon sighs, tapping his foot impatiently. “Well?”

“I mean, can I come in, or…?”

“Oh.” Jon frowns, his gaze faltering for a moment. Martin can’t tell whether it’s from exhaustion or something else. “No. I have some things I need to take care of.”

Martin’s shoulders fall. “Oh,” it’s his turn to say. “More pressing than whatever you’re worried might be coming after you?”

“Yes. I just— I need to look at...some things,” Jon tells him. “Why don’t you take the day off?”

“Right, sure,” Martin says with a chuckle, before he realises Jon isn’t joining him. “Wait, you’re serious?”

“Yes, Martin, I’m serious,” Jon says, clenching his jaw. “Now can you  _ please _ leave so that I can keep working?”

Martin isn’t quite prepared for the harsh tone in Jon’s voice, and as they land his heart feels heavy in his chest. “Right,” he says, voice faint now. “Fine, then.” He takes a step back, and Jon shuts the door with a heavy thud.

Martin huffs and turns around. So much for helping.

In the end Martin decides he might as well make use of his day off. His sword is still nowhere near finished, but there are other supplies that it couldn’t hurt to stock up on and by the time midday rolls around he feels like he has done some good business indeed. His herb satchel has been refilled with what he hasn’t been able to pick for himself, as well as emptied of some plants he had in excess. Similarly, he now has plenty of alchemical bases, and he has even gone so far as to indulge himself with a new pair of gloves. Honestly, he is in need of new boots as well, but with the sword commission in mind he knows he won’t be able to afford them.

Carrying his new purchases, Martin then returns to the castle. He doesn’t get as far as his rooms, however, before he runs into Melanie the castellan.

“Oh! Hello, Martin,” she greets, stopping in the hallway. She looks much the same as she did three years ago, only with slightly shorter hair. “I heard you were back. Helping Jon with something, was it?”

Martin nods. “Yes. Though not today apparently. I showed up this morning and he just shooed me off.”

“Sounds like him,” Melanie scoffs. “Then I’m guessing I can’t ask you to help me coax him out of there?”

Martin frowns. “What do you mean?”

“He was supposed to meet me and Georgie a few hours ago, but never showed. I went to fetch him just now, but I made the mistake of telling him it was me knocking, and he didn’t even bother to open the door.”

Martin begins to ask why that is, but remembers Jon mentioning Melanie and the Queen being lovers, whereas Jon and Georgie were lovers in the past. Something twists in his chest before he pushes it down. “I don’t think he’ll listen much to me, either,” he says instead.

Melanie sighs. “No, I suppose he wouldn’t. Stubborn arse.” She shakes her head, then straightens her back and smooths out her skirts. “Well, I’d better get going then. Good luck with him.”

“Thank you,” Martin says, before they both part ways.

Despite what he told Melanie, Martin decides it’s worth a try, and after he’s left his things in his chambers he goes once more to knock at Jon’s door. Unsurprisingly, but no less disappointing, there is no answer. At least not from inside the room.

“No luck then?” The voice comes from his right, and Martin turns to find himself face to face with the queen.

He blinks, before remembering to lower his head in a bow. “Your majesty.”

The queen scoffs. “Oh please. You’re a friend of Jon’s, there’s no need for that.”

“I don’t know if he’d call me a friend,” Martin points out, but raises his gaze nonetheless.

“Well, he’s a bit stubborn at times,” Queen Georgie agrees, “but he’ll come to his senses eventually. Do you mind if I…?”

Realising what she means, Martin takes a quick step back from the door. Once the space is freed, Georgie knocks. “Jon? Would you  _ please _ stop acting like a child for five minutes? I’ll revoke your Admiral access.”

To Martin’s surprise, there is the sound of movement beyond the door, before it is pulled open by a frazzled looking Jon. “You wouldn’t,” he says, sounding genuinely worried.

“I would,” Georgie argues, crossing her arms. “You’re not just living here because we’re friends, you know. You have duties.”

“I am busy working—”

“On the city’s protections, right? That you hired a witcher for? Then why is he not in there, helping you?”

“Because I don’t trust him not to tamper with things!” Jon hisses.

Martin scoffs. “I’ll just be off then. I have some more tampering to do.”

Jon’s head turns so fast it would be comical, if not for the hurtful situation. “Martin,” he says. Not apologetic, just surprised and mildly annoyed.

“Yeah?”

Jon doesn’t reply, but manages to look like he has about a thousand words ready to burst out at any second, barely contained behind a clenched jaw and an iron stare.

“Oh for the love of—” Georgie gives Jon a hard prod in the chest with a single finger. “Fine, no bloody duties to the kingdom for now. But you’re solving this, or I’m throwing you out.” With that, she turns on her heel and marches away down the corridor.

When Jon still doesn’t say anything, only looks after her with an affronted look on his face, Martin sighs. “I haven’t been tampering with anything. Can I please come inside so you can explain to me why you don’t trust me?”

Jon turns his glare towards Martin, then steps aside with a curt “Fine.”

The inside of Jon’s chambers is, simply put, a mess. Unlike the slightly chaotic organisation that Martin had seen before, it is now pure chaos with no logic that Martin can discern whatsoever. Papers and books are strewn about, with notes and various objects scattered on top. There are faint paths between tables and chairs where Jon has obviously been making his way through the otherwise obstructed room. Martin looks for a place to sit down, but finds none.

Behind him, the door slams shut.

“You thought you could pull me along, didn’t you?” Jon says, crossing the room without caring what he overturns in the process. In the candlelight his body casts long, oversized shadows on the walls. “You thought you were so clever, telling me you could check the wards with me. As long as I trust you, right? A witcher wouldn’t lie about defective wards, after all. But for you it was just a way of making sure things got past, right under my nose.”

“What are you talking about?” Martin asks, thrown by the intensity in Jon’s accusations. “I haven’t been lying to you! The wards have been perfectly intact.”

Jon scoffs and shakes his head. “Incredible. Even after I’ve found you out you keep insisting. You’re no better than your witcher brother.”

“What, Tim?” Martin asks, shaking his head in disbelief.

Jon nods rapidly. “I didn’t see it at first, but it makes sense now. He brought the pesta here, and pretended to help me in order to lure it closer to me. Bloody genius, really; he even got paid for it.”

Martin is shaking. It’s one thing for Jon to insult him, but to go after Tim as well? Martin isn’t violent when he doesn’t have to be, but he has to hold back the mutated part of him that wants to slam Jon into the wall and shut him up. Instead he lets out a breath, trembling with anger. “He wouldn’t do that.”

“Oh, but he did,” Jon argues, bracing himself against the desk in front of him and glaring up at Martin.

“Would you stop it?! You’re making things up, you’re seeing things—”

“No,  _ you _ stop it!” Jon shouts, slamming his fist into the table. Something falls off the edge, clattering to the floor. “I am seeing things, yes, but I know exactly why. You played the really long game, offered me some tea three years ago so that I wouldn’t be opposed to it now. And now you brew it with hallucinogens to make me question my own sanity. But I am not falling for it again.”

Martin is too baffled by the absurdity of it all to think of an answer. He only manages to let out a scoff, hurt and affronted, when his eye catches on something on the wall: Jon’s shadow, so much larger than life, is twitching in a way it shouldn’t be. It doesn’t reflect Jon the way it should, either, and Martin can’t shake the feeling that it looks...satisfied. He pointedly looks away from it and back at Jon, who doesn’t seem to have noticed anything being amiss.

Without saying anything, Martin turns around and leaves. Jon doesn’t stop him as he goes through the door, doesn’t come chasing him in the hallway. Still, only when he has closed himself into his own rooms does Martin manage to let go of some of the tension holding up his body. He sits down on the bed with a heavy exhale, dragging his fingers through his hair as he feels a headache start to build at his temples. He doesn’t know when it happened, but he knows why Jon is acting out.

Jon has fallen prey to a hym.

Martin wishes Tim was there. Or Sasha, or Peter, or Gerry, or anyone he could possibly ask about this. He’s dealt with his fair share of spectres before, but never anything as complicated as a hym. And in all other cases there hasn’t been a time limit, because as long as the necessary precautions were taken people could stay away from whatever was haunting them until Martin could figure out a way to kill or release the spirit in question.

But hyms are different. They prey on the minds of their targets, making them question their own sanity and eventually making them hurt themselves. If Martin doesn’t manage to get rid of this thing soon, Jon will be in very serious trouble indeed. And he doesn’t know how to fight it.

He thought hyms only targeted the guilty and ashamed, but in this case it seems the spectre has latched onto Jon’s fear and paranoia instead, and Martin has no clue how to approach that. There might be something in the books at Kaer Lukas, but there simply isn’t time for him to rush there and back. He wishes he was able to operate a megascope, or that he had one of those mirrors Sasha used to talk through. Then he could at least ask someone for help.

He could fight it, of course, but that would require Jon to trust him enough to even let him get that close. And he would need to figure out where the thing even possessed Jon in the first place. Trickery was an option, but an even more difficult one given that he would need an extra person to be able to pull it off. If the hym would even want to leave a meal like Jon in the first place, that is.

Martin groans, dragging his fingers through his hair again. “This is bad,” he mutters. “This is really, really bad.”

After some pacing, and a lot of futile thinking, Martin once more braves the hallways of the castle. With the reluctant help of a passing servant he finds his way to the queen’s chambers, and soon he is knocking at her door.

She answers it, looking more dressed down than when he met her earlier. “Witcher,” she greets, not entirely managing to mask her confusion at his presence.

“I need to speak to you,” he says with a sigh. “About Jon.”

“What did he do?” the queen asks, stepping aside to let him into the room. Melanie is in there as well, reading on a chaise lounge but looking up at the interruption.

“He’s… He’s possessed,” Martin tells them both, seeing no reason to delay the news. “I don’t know if it happened before or after I got here, but he’s been taken by a spirit known as a hym. That’s why he’s acting the way he is.”

“Oh,” Queen Georgie says. “Well, that would explain it, I suppose.”

“You seem very calm about that,” Martin points out, a little confused.

Georgie just shrugs. “Creatures from the conjunction are a bit of a fascination of mine. Ours, really.”

“Right.”

“So what did he do?” Melanie asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he must have done something to become open for possession, no?”

“I don’t know,” Martin admits. “And I can’t really talk to him either, given what he’s currently like. He thinks I’ve been giving him hallucinogens.”

“And have you?” Melanie wonders.

“No! Of course not!”

She shrugs. “You have to admit, asking us to trust you over the guy we’ve known for years is a bit of a stretch. Even if he’s an arsehole.”

“Martin helped us last time,” Georgie points out.

“The werewolf got away.”

“Still.”

Martin sighs. “It doesn’t matter if you trust me or Jon more. If you look at his shadow, you’ll see for yourselves.”

Georgie sighs as well, pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers. “No, no, I believe you. But how do we get rid of it?”

Martin stays with the queen and the castellan for hours. He barely has the time to be relieved by the fact that expertise and tomes have actually turned out to be within his reach, as the three of them dive into the research and speculations on how to free Jon of his unwelcome passenger.

It’s nearing the early hours of the morning when Georgie slams a book closed with a heavy thud. “Can you trust me, Martin?” she asks.

He looks up from his own book, trying to blink the tiredness from his eyes. “Yeah,” he tells her. “I can.”

“Good,” she says, rising from her seat and walking over to a cabinet. She opens it and brings out a small chest, which she unlocks with a key kept in a chain around her neck. From the chest she takes out a small glass vial, filled with a clear liquid. “Then you get some rest, and come morning you meet me and Jon on the highest floor of the western wing of the castle. There’ll be torches. Then you need to make him drink this.”

She holds out the vial for Martin, who slowly takes it from her hand. “What is it?”

“It’s best if you don’t know,” Georgie says solemnly.

“And what about getting Jon to actually drink it? He doesn’t exactly trust me at the moment,” Martin points out.

“You’ll have to figure that out yourself, I’m afraid.”

Martin steels himself and nods. “Alright then. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

He tries to get some sleep, but it’s fitful at best as his mind keeps trying to work out how to convince Jon to drink the potion. When dawn breaks he gets dressed, making sure everything is in top shape. For good measure, he spends a few minutes coating his silver blade in spectre oil before he leaves for the western wing. In the pocket of his jacket, the small vial weighs far more than any object its size has any right to.

The further Martin walks, the less servants he encounters, and by the time he spots the torches Queen Georgie promised him, he hasn’t seen another living soul in a good while. Neither Georgie nor Jon are anywhere to be found, so he kneels down at the edge of the firelight and waits.

Before long, Martin hears Jon’s voice echo between the stone walls. “Are you going to offer any sort of explanation yet?”

“Soon. Just trust me,” Georgie replies.

Their footsteps get closer and closer, until they round a corner and Martin can make out their shapes in the faint light. He stands up, taking a deep breath.

Once Jon sees him, he stiffens. “What is the witcher doing here?” he asks Georgie, not taking his eyes off Martin.

“You were right,” he says, taking a step closer. “You have been seeing things, and I want to apologise for it.”

“Because an apology is going to help,” Jon deadpans, crossing his arms.

“No,” Martin agrees, and brings out the vial. He holds it out towards Jon. “But I thought an antidote to the hallucinogens might.”

Jon stares at it for a moment, before his eyes dart around the room. Behind him, his shadow shifts. “And I should just believe you, just like that?”

Martin sighs, only trembling faintly. “Yes. I want to make it up to you.”

“It could kill me.”

“Jon, if I wanted you dead, don’t you think there are easier ways for me to do it?”

Jon narrows his eyes, but reaches out to grab the vial. His fingers feel so small against Martin’s gloved hand. “And why here? Why like this?”

“Honestly? After last night I didn’t think you’d talk to me otherwise. Georgie was kind enough to help.”

Jon looks over his shoulder to the queen, who nods. “It’s alright, Jon, I promise.”

A long, quiet moment passes, before Jon opens the vial. “Thank you,” Martin says.

Jon shakes his head. Then he downs the potion in one go, grimacing as he hands the vial back to Martin. He looks around the room, frowning. “It’s not working.”

“Give it some time, okay?” Martin says, as gentle as he can.

Jon is about to reply, but his breath gets caught on the words. His chest heaves and he stumbles, clutching at his throat.

Martin catches him, confusion, worry and fear racing through his mind. He doesn’t know what the potion was supposed to do but he cannot imagine that this is it. He throws Georgie a panicked look, but her face is stone cold, unaffected by the scene in front of her. In Martin’s arms, Jon is going more and more slack by the second, and Martin sinks to his knees as he holds him against his chest. He is all too painfully reminded of that night three years ago, when Jon was bleeding out in his arms. But he had been alright then. Which means he must be alright now, as well. He must be.

“I—” is all Jon manages to say, but his eyes are wide with pain and betrayal as their green glow begins to diminish.

“No,” Martin breathes. Without a wound to close or knowing what herbs or enchantment was in that potion, he can do nothing. “No, no, no, this wasn’t supposed to happen, it was supposed to  _ help! _ Why isn’t it helping? Jon?”

But Jon just lies there in his arms, lifeless. The only heartbeat Martin can hear is his own.

“What have I done?” he asks the empty air around him, feeling the weight of the entire world place itself on his shoulders. “Gods, what have I done?”

“He’s dead,” Georgie says from her place outside the firelight. “It was the only way to ensure the safety of my kingdom.”

“No,” Martin all but whimpers, cradling Jon’s still form to his chest. He didn’t think he knew Jon well enough to feel his death so harshly, but the pain and guilt of it turns out to be so much it’s overwhelming.

And that’s when he feels it.

A frenzied darkness creeping into the edges of his vision, whispers of reassurance that he is the worst person in the world echoing around him. The hym staking its claim on him.

Martin carefully lowers Jon’s body to the cold floor before he stands up to face his shadow and draw his sword. The hym will pay for this.

_ No. It isn’t the hym that has to pay, it is Martin. After all, he’s the one who just killed an innocent man, is he not? _

Martin stares at his sword. He isn’t worthy of it. He can’t protect anyone.

“Did it get you?” Georgie asks, her voice strangely soft for the situation.

“Yes,” Martin replies, feeling hollow. “I’ll just leave then. Take it with me. Your kingdom will be safe.”

“No.”

“What?” Nothing makes sense. But then it can’t when he turns out to be capable of such foul things.

“No. You won’t take it with you. You can’t. It has no power to possess you.”

Martin lets out a single, mirthless chuckle. “It has every power, and I’m sure you know that. You made me kill him, after all.”

“I didn’t,” Georgie objects gently. “What you gave him was a potion of paralysis, to make the consumer appear dead for a time. He’ll be just fine.”

It takes a moment for her words to sink in. But when they do, Martin’s pain blooms into relief, his grief into gratitude and his guilt into courage. Jon will be fine. Jon is  _ alive.  _ Squaring his shoulders, Martin turns to his shadow again. “You heard her,” he says, loud and clear. “I’ve done nothing wrong and you have to leave.”

There is a roar that Martin not so much hears as he  _ feels _ it, as the hym rips itself from his mind and body. Now a semi-solid shade, it stalks around in the torchlight vibrating with a need for vengeance. Martin lunges for it with his sword before it has any chance to do the same to him.

Of all of the things the hym has turned out to be, a difficult battle isn’t one of them. Martin soon watches the shade crumble away with one last, dying screech, before everything is silent and his medallion is wonderfully still. The light from the torches already feels brighter, and Martin hurries to sheathe his sword and return to Jon’s side.

Georgie is already there, stroking his arm and whispering reassurances. When Martin approaches, she looks up. “I’m sorry for the trickery.”

Martin sighs. “It’s okay. It wouldn’t have worked if I didn’t truly feel the guilt.”

“Still, I’m sorry nonetheless.”

Martin offers her a smile. It’s a little strained given the stressful morning he has had, but it is still a smile. “How long until Jon wakes up then? I bet he’s going to want some explanations and apologies too.”

Georgie looks down at the man in question. “The potion paralyses the body, not the mind, so he will have heard everything you have in the past few minutes. But it will take about half an hour for the effects to wear off, so we’d better get him somewhere more comfortable. Can you carry him?”

Martin nods, and tries not to think too much about the fact that Jon is fully awake as he carefully gets his arms underneath his back and knees, holding him close to his chest. Jon’s head lolls to rest against Martin’s shoulder, and he tries not to think about that either.

Georgie leads them back to Jon’s chambers, and once there she cuts straight through the mess of papers and books on the floor, heading for the staircase along the wall. Martin follows her with some trepidation, not certain he is entirely welcome in the more private parts of Jon’s home. There are papers strewn across the floor here as well, though not to the same extent as downstairs, but other than that it doesn’t have much in the way of personal effects. As he places Jon down onto the bed on the far end of the room, a distant part of Martin’s mind wonders what Jon even does for fun.

“Should we wait for him?” he asks Georgie once Jon is no longer in his arms.

“Yeah. Better do it downstairs though, come on.”

To pass the time, the queen and the witcher mull about the messy study and try to begin cleaning it up. Weirdly, the more papers they sort, the more there seems to be, but Martin decides not to dwell on it. Eventually, the sound of their sorting is accompanied by the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. Martin looks up, wide eyed as he watches Jon slowly approach.

“Hi,” he manages. “How— How’re you feeling?”

“Not exactly great, but better than before,” Jon says, before he suddenly has an armful of Georgie.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I couldn’t think of any other way to get rid of it.”

“It’s… It’s okay. You did what you had to do,” Jon replies softly, wrapping his arms around Georgie in turn, but letting his eyes lock with Martin’s. Once Georgie steps back a little, Jon rests his hands on her shoulders and looks away. “I should apologise too. For how I acted. I really thought— I could have sworn I was being actively targeted.”

“I mean you were,” Martin points out. “Just by the hym, not, you know. By any of us.”

“You know what?” Georgie says. “I’m gonna go fetch you The Admiral. He’s bound to make you feel a little bit better.”

“Thank you,” Jon says, as Georgie makes to leave.

Once she has closed the door behind her, Jon goes to slump down in one of the chairs. After a brief moment of hesitation, Martin joins him. “I’m sorry too,” he murmurs. “I swear I would never have given you that potion if I thought it would kill you. Georgie just...asked me to trust her, and I did.”

Jon pulls his feet up in the chair, hugging his knees to his chest. “No, I— I saw. I heard what you said, after, and I— I don’t believe that you’ve been doing anything but trying to help.”

“I’m still sorry,” Martin offers. He’s quiet for a moment. “Can I ask you something?”

Jon looks up, meeting his eyes. “Hm?”

“How much of what you’ve said these past few days was the hym, and how much was you? Which parts were your genuine worries, I mean? I— I’d still like to help, if I can.”

Jon sighs slowly, heavily. “I barely know? All of it was me, in a way, just fueled by what it was telling me. I don’t believe that you were trying to sabotage me now, but I genuinely did an hour ago. Likewise with what I said about Tim.” Jon is quiet for a moment, but it’s not a quiet that Martin feels that he can fill. “I am still scared though,” he finally continues. “Things keep coming after me and I don’t know why, how, or when it will happen next. The wards are fine, but the hym still managed to get past them somehow.”

“I didn’t really solve much, did I?” Martin mutters.

“No, you did,” Jon assures, his voice soft like it has been since he woke up. “I know my mind is my own now, at least. You’ve helped a lot.”

“Oh.”

They sit in silence for a while, but it feels companionable rather than stiff, before Jon speaks again. “How much longer are you staying?”

Martin shifts in his seat. “I can go, if you want, I just figured you might not want to be alone—”

“Stay. Please,” Jon interrupts. “I meant how much longer before you’re leaving Vengerberg?”

Something in Martin’s chest feels warm, and he relaxes again. “Oh. I mean, there’ll be a few more days until my sword’s done, but after that I don’t really know.”

“Well, you’re welcome to stay here in the castle until you leave,” Jon offers.

“Thank you. But isn’t that up to Georgie?”

“What’s up to me?” says the woman in question, choosing that moment to come through the door. In her arms she carries a large, fluffy cat.

“I was just telling Martin that he can stay here until he’s ready to leave,” Jon explains, reaching for the cat. Surprisingly, it doesn’t hiss as it passes Martin.

“Of course he can,” Georgie says, smiling as she clears another chair from books and papers and takes a seat. “And should a court of nobles or something show up and need the guest rooms, well, I’m sure you could fit Martin in here.”

Martin bashfully averts his gaze at her comment, but doesn’t miss the icy glare that Jon gives the queen. Wringing his hands, he stands up. “Well, I’d better get going. Give you some quality time, and do some post-battle maintenance on my stuff and all that. Right.”

He makes it all the way to the door before Jon’s voice stops him. “Martin?”

“Yeah?” Jon looks absolutely adorable as he sits with the large cat in his arms, but Martin forces himself not to think about that.

“I’ll see you later?” There’s the hint of a smile playing on Jon’s lips, and damn if he doesn’t sound hopeful, too.

“Yeah, of course,” Martin hurries to say, before he simply has to take his leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, kudos and comments warm my heart!
> 
> My backlog continues to grow thin because I keep getting too wrapped up in other things. I will try to maintain the two-week update schedule but we'll see what happens. Either way I fully intend to see this story through to the end <3
> 
> In the meantime, do check out the Dream Avatar game that I helped develop!


	8. Interlude: Royalty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Georgina of House Barker is a child, she is told that she can have anything she wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this was actually supposed to go up last Friday buuuuuut I forgot. Sorry!

When Georgina of House Barker is a child, she is told that she can have anything she wants. While she is young and naive she believes it — after all, what reason has she not to? And her parents give her anything she looks at, happy to spoil their only daughter.

She also knows it isn’t like that for everyone. It certainly isn’t like that for Jon.

His father is a skilled diplomat and advisor to Georgie's parents, the king and queen of Aedirn. But despite his silver tongue, Lord Sims isn’t immune to accidents. One day the whole family is travelling between cities and their wagon falls prey to a flock of arachasae. The monsters kill the parents, and while Jon gets away with a bad injury to his leg, he is left all alone.

Well, not entirely alone. Jon and Georgie are the same age, and have been fast friends since before either of them could walk. Georgie’s parents take pity on the orphaned boy, and either because of that or out of loyalty to their late advisor, they let him stay in the castle, with his grandmother moving in to deal with raising him. Georgie would be happy to let Jon have whatever he wants, but even she cannot give him his parents back.

As Jon grows, it becomes apparent that he has a natural talent for magic. With no inherited lands nor title to speak of, his grandmother eventually arranges for him to study the arcane, using his parents’ money for the tuition fees. And so by the time he and Georgie are eleven, he is sent off. Georgie argues that he wouldn’t need an inheritance if he just got married to her and became a prince, but neither her parents nor Jon’s grandmother appear to want to consider it.

For the first time, Georgie understands that even she can’t get everything she wants all the time.

They exchange letters, when they can. Georgie tells Jon about the goings-on in the castle, and he tells her about what strange new magics he is taught. He complains about having been sent to the wrong school and how he is hoping it can be fixed, and Georgie complains about the dull politics her parents are trying to teach her.

When Jon gets his transfer two years later, the letters start to grow more scarce. He is studying even harder, he tells her, and Georgie on her part becomes more and more occupied with learning how to rule her future kingdom. When her parents suffer an accident of their own and she is crowned queen, the time for letters becomes next to nonexistent.

And then, one day, it comes. A new letter from Jon, informing her that he is done with his education. He asks if he might come to live at her court again, and if she is perhaps in need of a mage advisor. Georgie can’t even consider anything other than a yes, and wishes him safe travels home.

A carriage arrives a few weeks later, and as soon as it’s announced Georgie all but runs through the castle to meet it. Jon doesn’t get past the doors before she has him wrapped up in a tight hug. “I’ve missed you,” she says into his hair. It’s as black and silky as it ever was, and still as long. It smells different though. That scent Georgie always used to associate with Jon is still there, but it’s fainter, and something more masculine has settled over it, with undertones of sharp spices.

She pulls back, though not so far that she cannot keep her hands firmly planted on his shoulders. He’s as bony as ever, and while Georgie hit a growth spurt eventually, it seems Jon barely did. He’s dressed in fine robes well suited for a sorcerer, and he no longer supports himself on a cane like he had to do ever since his accident.

And his face. Oh, his face. While Georgie remembers an eleven-year-old boy, still round faced and awkward, there’s a young man looking back at her now. Sharp lines make up his nose, jaw and cheekbones, and his eyes are deeper set than she remembers them. They’re also a faintly glowing green, rather than the warm brown she is so used to. Perhaps a necessary change in order to become a sorcerer? She will have to ask him about it later.

His lips, however, are stretched into a gentle, shy smile, and that smile is exactly how Georgie remembers it. She kind of wants to kiss it.

“I’ve missed you too,” Jon finally says, pulling her from her thoughts and placing a hand atop one of Georgie’s. She wonders how different she must look in his eyes as well.

“Come on, let’s get you settled. You must be tired after all that travelling,” she says. “Besides, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

“Oh?” Jon says, his expression hard to read.

Georgie hooks their arms together and begins to lead him inside the castle, heading for her private chambers. She’s faintly aware of people taking care of Jon’s luggage behind them. “He hasn’t been living here for very long, but I love him already. And I think you will too.”

“You’re being rather cryptic, you know,” Jon points out, but follows her nonetheless.

Georgie hums. “I know. But how was your journey? Not too eventful, I hope?”

“No. Rather pleasant, in fact.”

In the time it takes for Jon to give his retelling, they reach Georgie’s chambers. “The Admiral is just inside,” she says, reaching for the door.

“The Admiral?” Jon echoes, but he needn’t wonder for long. As soon as the door is opened the fluffy cat himself comes trotting to meet Georgie, purring as she picks him up into her arms. His confusion melts away into relief, and the smile returns to his lips. “Oh.”

“I told you you’d love him,” Georgie says, giving the cat a kiss on top of his head. She adjusts his grip, holding him out to Jon, who looks rather smitten.

“I’m— Thank you,” he manages, taking the Admiral from her. He fits quite well in Jon’s arms, butting his head up against Jon’s chin.

Georgie reaches out to pet her cat, and once she reaches the end of him her hand comes to rest on Jon’s arm. “I’m really glad to have you home,” she murmurs.

Jon offers her a smile and a nod in return. “It’s good to be back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little look into the past JonGeorgie because they are important to each other. I hope you liked it!


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